


Last Call

by Mayhem21



Series: Last Call [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Referenced alcohol abuse, RvB Rare Pair Week, can't explain how this happened, i am literally all alone on this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: The last standing bar on Chorus should have posted a warning on the door: Danger! Contains alcohol, irate bartenders, and a lone battered Freelancer. Drink at your own risk. Written for RvB Rare Pair Week (5/7-13/17).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the ship I woke up and found myself on all by myself years ago. To this day, I still don't understand how I ended up here. With the advent of RvB Rare Pair week, I decided to stop making cosmetic changes and launch this ship to sea. I hope you enjoy!

“This makes all the bullshit going on right now totally worth it,” Grif sighed in quiet happiness after taking a long gulp from the battered glass mug.

“Glad it meets with your approval, _captain,_ ” the barkeep standing opposite him replied in a cool voice.

Grif couldn’t suppress the roll of his eyes. “That,” he shot back, “is part of the bullshit. It’s beyond me how Kimball could take a look at any us and decide that _we_ are officer material.”

The ‘us’ in this instance being himself, Simmons, Tucker, and Caboose. A standard week had passed since the small foursome had become officers in the battered New Republic Army. And while Tucker was going all-in training the soldiers they’d been given, Grif couldn’t see how this could end any other way but failure.

One bright spot had emerged, however, when the Republic successfully retook a small backwater town near the underground base. Because while most of town was in ruin, the remaining population lived and worked in a still-functioning hydroponics factory, one of the few reliable sources of food in the entire area. And more importantly, there was a _bar_.

“How’s the drink, sir?” Matthews continued to hover anxiously at Grif’s elbow, his yellow accented helmet tucked under his arm. “I-- Normally we don’t tell officers about this place but I, we, thought you’d appreciate it. And, um, not tell Kimball,” he concluded with a mumble.

“Yeah, explain that again,” Grif demanded, turning to rest his armored elbow on the bar.

A look of anxiety flittered across Matthews face and he cast a helpless look at Bitters, who was busy with his own drink a few spots down at the bar. Clearly irritated at the interruption, the other man set his drink down with a sigh.

“We’ve been trading this town back and forth with the Federal Army for years,” Bitters explained. “Because it has a hydroponics factory, both sides want it and try not to do too much damage to the town. The locals just go along with it all and sell and trade with whatever army is occupying them at the time. This bar,” his hand swept out to encompass the crudely welded together shipping crates that made up the structure, “has survived all the armies moving in and out of here. Mostly because us grunts make sure the higher-ups don’t know and can’t commandeer the still or enlist the barkeep or his staff.”

“We don’t give a shit who wins this war,” the barkeep interrupted. He looked from Bitters to Matthews and finally at Grif. “At this point, it really doesn’t make a difference to us one way or another. This bar, though, is one of the few places besides the factory our people can be safe and it gives us a chance to do some trading to help make life worth living. We’ll have a problem,” he added in a harsh tone, “if anyone does something to jeopardize the current arrangement.”

After staring back at the barkeep for several long moments, Grif shrugged and turned back to the bar and downed the last of his drink, setting the glass down once it was empty. “Sounds like you guys are the smartest people on the whole planet,” he stated. “Far be it from me to tell you to do something different. I’m just an idiot in a tin can, after all. I don’t know _shit._ ”

The barkeep studied him for several long moments. Finally, he grabbed Grif’s glass and refilled it from the one of the metal tanks behind him. “On the house, captain,” he said returning the glass. “Just so you know, we do an even trade here for drink or food.” He gestured at a crude chalkboard hanging on the wall above the tanks. On it, the going rate for medicine, weapons, mechanical parts, and more were written in a clear hand. Grif scanned it, making a mental note of what was in demand and what he already knew he could get his hands on.

“Thanks for the tip,” he replied after reading through the list. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

The door to the bar suddenly swung open and a small stream of people poured in. Their armor was much simpler than anything the Republic soldiers wore, not to mention generally made up of a hodgepodge of different styles and parts. The factory shift must have just changed.

Grif, wary of the (to him) unjustified hero worship he and the other simulation troopers had been greeted with, picked up his drink and helmet and nodded his thanks to the bartender before looking at Matthews and Bitters. “Matthews, we’ve barely known each other a week. This is the first good idea you’ve had. Maybe you’re not such a suck-up after all.” Then, he left the bar and made his way to towards the back of the room where he could find a dark corner to lurk in.

The barkeep watched him go, then glanced at the two soldiers that had brought the stranger to his establishment. “Interesting man,” he murmured. “It would be better for you if no more _command officers_ come waltzing in here. I doubt they’d all be so _understanding_.” With that, he shifted further down the bar to start serving his new customers.

Bitters elbowed Matthews in the side. “I _told_ you not to tell him about this place,” he hissed, unable to keep from glancing over his shoulder towards where the orange soldier had disappeared.

“He’s a _hero_. He _said_ he wanted a drink,” Matthews protested. He bit his lip, giving Bitters another helpless look. “I didn’t think it would be bad. And it worked out okay!”

“Just don’t do anything like this again.” Bitters sighed. Matthews looked like a sad puppy and so _god damned_ young. He’d completely bought the propaganda about the Reds and Blues, that they were big damn heroes. And as much as he wanted to be mad at them for riding in under such false pretenses, Captain Grif, at least, had made it clear he thought their lauded status was bullshit.

Waving down the a server and sliding a small packet of antibiotics across the bar, Bitters passed one of the two beers he got in return to Matthews. As they drank, Bitters turned his thoughts to the puzzle that was Dexter Grif. The captain he’d been assigned to was lazy, overweight, and wholly uninterested in the struggle the New Republic was engaged in. And yet, Bitters had seen him heft around cargo crates and boxes of supplies that normally would have taken several soldiers to move. There were also occasional passing comments and a knowing flicker in Grif’s rarely seen eyes that hinted at a far more intelligent mind than the man presented to the world.

And however overblown the Reds and Blues reputations may be, it was undeniable that they had survived some serious shit. Grif himself had several visible scars once he removed his helmet, including one that ripped straight from his right temple down and across his face to the left side of his jaw. It was hard to believe he’d survived whatever injury _that_ had come from. No, there more to Dexter Grif than met the eye. Who knew _what_ he was actually capable of?

* * *

 

The back of the bar, Grif discovered, was mostly a few rickety bar high tables and a long line of booths along the far wall, the last of which was mostly in shadow. Unhooking the battle rifle from the magnetic latch on his back, Grif rested the trusty weapon against the wall and slid across the metal bench. Once he could lean against the seat back, he let out a relieved sigh and closed his eyes.

The factory workers were a noisy bunch but were so far confining themselves to the space around the bar. The door kept swinging, though, as more and more people poured in and Grif knew it wouldn’t be long before it was standing room only. He hoped it took a while. He needed time to think.

The table suddenly rattled and shook under his arms and Grif’s eyes shot open. A tall blond man was scowling on him with bloodshot eyes as his hands rested on the gray, unpainted helmet he’d slammed down on the table.

“This is my spot,” the man insisted.

Grif stared up _(and_ _up, Jesus the man was tall)_ at the intruder. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, the way it’s stench had permeated his armor. Grif had learned to recognize a drunk at an early age and this guy looked (and smelled) like he’d been hitting the bottle for a while.

“No reason why we can’t share,” Grif suggested, carefully keeping his voice level. “I’m not here to chat. Just to drink.” He waited, watching to see which way the drunk would react. He hoped it wasn’t with violence. Grif had a feeling fighting would get him permanently banned from what seemed to be the only functioning bar on Chorus.

The drunk shifted uncomfortably under Grif’s wary gaze, uncertain what to do. Then Grif’s eyes shifted slightly and he nodded his head towards the bar. “Looks like you’ve got drinks on the way,” he noted. “Why don’t you go ahead and sit down?”

The drunk turned and, seeing the armored server walking towards them with a tray of drinks, reluctantly slid into the opposite seat. His shoulders hunched and he fiddled with his helmet, finally leaving it alone once the server arrived.

“Making friends, Nick?” the server asked as they slid the drinks onto the table.

Nick shook his head. “Just drinking.” He paused to glare at Grif. “He was already here.”

“Didn’t know this seat was taken,” Grif responded with a small shrug. He dug into one of his armor’s storage compartments and produced a small field medkit, which he held out to the server. “Can I make a down payment on a bar tab?” he asked hopefully.

“With that? You bet,” the server replied. Taking the kit, the bland gray helmet gave him a brief nod. “Just let me know when you need a refill.”

Once the two men were alone again, Grif studied the blond man with hidden interest. Nick, assuming he’d heard the name right, was already halfway through one of the beers, gripping the handle of the glass with a tight grip as he clutched at the back of his neck with his other hand. The position tickled at the back of Grif’s mind. His posture about it reminded him of … something. It definitely wasn’t a casual position -- his hand was too low on his neck to be comfortable and there was no movement, nothing to suggest he was rubbing tired muscles.

Grif took a swallow of his own drink and let his gaze wander, sweeping over the still-growing crowd. He could barely make out Bitters and Matthews still standing at the bar.

“That’s my seat.”

Blinking in surprise, Grif looked back at Nick.

“That’s my seat,” the man repeated. “Don’t take it again,” he warned. For a moment, a dark warning flashed in his blue eyes.

The little voice that lived in the back of Grif’s head took notice and screamed: _Get out, he’s dangerous_. Curiosity won out, however, and besides, the voice wasn’t _always_ right. “I won’t,” he promised, not moving. “This been your spot long?”

Nick frowned at him. His eyes darted away, up, to the side, then down to his helmet _(he could see a reflection of the room in the visor)_ and back to Grif. “Since the-- the war,” he stuttered before taking a hasty gulp from his glass.

Something new was in his eyes now. Grif could see that the hand Nick held at the back of his neck had tightened and the tall, lanky man was suddenly curling in on himself. He’d been a soldier, Grif realized. And he’d been through something _bad_. The flicker of curiosity in him roared into a full-on fire.

“Long enough for a decent claim,” Grif finally replied, deliberately side-stepping the mention of the Great War. “I’ll stay out of your seat in the future.”

At Grif’s words, Nick’s posture loosened slightly and some of the tension in his face relaxed. Returning to his drink, he downed it in a few gulps, then set the glass down and moved on to the next.

The two men sat in silence the rest of the night. Grif _had_ wanted time to think through everything and as curious as he was about his unexpected drinking companion, a simple Chorus factory worker (even a former soldier) wasn’t as big a priority as working through the crash, the attack by the Federal soldiers, or being enlisted by the New Republic Army

As he drank, Grif turned to his thoughts recent events, trying to decide if his current path was one he wanted to stay on. For the first time in a really fucking long time, he actually had a choice. The factory workers filling up the bar were proof enough that if he didn’t want to fight, he could actually chose _not to fight_. Nick had clearly made the same choice.

But--

If he left, it would be up to Simmons, Caboose, and Tucker to find and save the others. Felix seemed decent enough and Kimball was willing to lend a hand but he didn’t really know them. Simmons and the Blues were the only ones he could rely on. When push came to shove, could he really leave Sarge, Donut, and Washington to be rescued by _strangers_? And what about Carolina and Church? There were _still_ missing.

…

Fuck, he was going to stay wasn’t he?

He was going to stick with the New Republic. He was going to fight. He was going to stay a captain and have the lives of stupidly young and naive kids like Matthews in his hands.

Well, that was terrifying.

Groaning softly into his drink, Grif gulped down the final dregs. Glancing up, he eyed Nick, as he’d been doing off and on all night. The blond man was still clutching protectively at his neck but wouldn’t be able to manage it much longer if he kept drinking at his current rate.

Well, if they stayed near the town for a while, maybe he’d have time to work out the puzzle sitting across from him. Normally he’d run from personal drama but hey - this wasn’t a Blue Team problem. This wasn’t Freelancer bullshit. This was just a sad and broken soldier. Who knows, perhaps with enough time, Grif could even figure out a way to help the guy before he drank himself to death.

Matthews suddenly pushed his way through the crowd, making his way over to the table. “Sir, we should probably head back,” he suggested. He barely glanced at the man sitting across from Grif.

“Right.” Pushing himself out of the booth, Grif slung his battle rifle back onto this back and nodded to Nick. “See you around, man.” With that, Grif began to elbow his way towards the exit, Matthews at his heels.

Unnoticed by the men, Grif’s reluctant drinking companion turned in his seat, peering around the side of the booth with a puzzled look on his face. He’d been on Chorus long enough to be familiar with the different armor types in use. And what that soldier had been wearing was very distinct. No one on Chorus used Freelancer standard issue armor.

Shaken, the man once known as Agent North Dakota turned back around and picked up his drink, his hand reaching up once more to cup protectively around the neural interface in the back of his neck. And he drank, trying to dull the pain that still echoed in his mind, to heal the gaping wound left behind when Theta had been ripped screaming away from him.

Almost involuntarily, though, North found himself picturing the the man who’d taken his seat, the seat that let him watch the room and hide the implant in his neck. He hadn’t even caught his name. But-- perhaps he’d come around again. It hadn’t been bad, drinking with him. He hadn’t talked, hadn’t poked and prodded at him, tried to make friends or recruit him for one of the warring factions tearing Chorus apart.

It wouldn’t be bad, North finally decided through the haze of alcohol filling his mind, if he saw that soldier again. He could at least get his name next time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the second chapter WAY earlier than I originally intended because three people commented and I'm desperate to keep them invested. 90% of the story is done, should be 11 chapters. MIGHT stretch to 12 or an epilogue depending on how the wrap-up goes.

The first several weeks with the New Republic Army were interesting, to say the least. Grif happily pawned the training of his team off on Tucker who seemed to think he needed to be the new Agent Washington in the man’s absence. And watching Simmons fall apart trying to talk to his all-female unit was downright _hilarious_.

There were downsides, though. Tucker insisted that all the “Captains” do their own training and years of watching Grif slack off meant he had an excellent handle on all his usual evasion and diversionary tactics. Despite his best efforts, Grif couldn’t fully avoid having to run and do push-ups and target practice or whatever other bullshit the aquamarine soldier could think of.

Gold Team also had it’s share of disappointments. Matthews seemed incapable of expressing a contrary opinion and while Grif had originally thought of Bitters as a cool, doesn’t-play-by-the-rules maverick… well, he kept going back and forth on that classification.

It could be worse. As a Captain, he had the authority to order most of the New Republic soldiers around, including one’s of Caboose’s officers: Smith.

“Smith is insane,” Grif explained in a serious voice. “It’s the only God-damned thing that makes sense.”

Across from him, back safely to wall of the bar, Nick made an amused sound. After several night of companionable drinking, Grif had finally concluded that, despite living more or less in constant state of intoxication, he was one of the few sane people on the planet.

“Caboose is an idiot. I have literally seen him load his gun with crayons.” Shaking his head, Grif downed more of his beer. “And Smith treats every word coming out of his mouth like some kind of prophecy or thought problem.”

“I’m pretty sure crayons don’t have a lot of stopping power,” the blonde mused, taking a long pull of his drink. The number of empty glasses around him was still alarming but Grif couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of satisfaction: the overall number Nick consumed by the end of the night was going down. Somewhat.

“They have zero stopping power,” Grif agreed. “And just get clogged in the barrel of his rifle. The _only thing_ ,” he jabbed a finger at Nick, “that he’s ready for is some kind of fuckin’ _art_ emergency. It’s _messed up_.”

“And the soldier, Smith, you said? He sees Caboose doing this kind of stuff and hears him talk and thinks he’s testing everyone or something?” Laughter bubbled out of the other man’s throat, something he hadn’t done in a long time and couldn’t suppress. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a few heads turning towards the corner at the sudden sound.

North wasn’t used to noticing the more subtle currents of emotion in the bar. He’d long gotten used to just keeping an eye out for overt threats or the occasional bar fight. With Grif around, though, the pounding ache in his head, the raw, gaping hole where Theta used to live, simply wasn’t as bad as usual. He was simply too random, jumping from complaining about food or people to questions about destiny, failure, or the morality of lying all in the same breath. North had to focus to keep up and no matter what he told himself as he went to the bar each night, he couldn’t help but be drawn into whatever topic Grif had on his mind.

“I think Caboose has realized what Smith is doing,” Grif continued, unaware of North’s idle musings.

North tried not to laugh again at the disgusted look on the other man’s scarred face.

“Oh, you aren’t having to be around it every day.” Pausing for a moment, Grif turned briefly and waved his empty glass at the bar, signaling for another drink. “On top of his usual insanity, I think he’s trying to _be_ wise and mysterious. And Smith is just eating it up.”

North waited for the server to come over and swapping out Grif’s drink before replying. “Maybe you shouldn’t have crashed on Chorus,” he suggested. “That really seems to be where it all went wrong.”

A visible wince crossed Grif’s face. “Yeah, that-- that was a real clusterfuck. I wish I could say we were shot down or something but…” Groaning, Grif buried his head in his arms on the table. “We’re such screwups. A lot of people died. That is messed up.”

Biting his lip, North settled for awkwardly patting Grif’s arm. The story of the crash and the Reds and Blues’ subsequent struggle for survival was equal parts tragedy and comedy and it had taken him several nights to pry even the barest outline of the story out of the simulation soldier once they had started talking. Grif had been far more willing to talk about Blood Gulch than recent events.

“How’d you end up on Chorus?” Grif finally asked as he peeked up from his arms. “I heard you weren’t from around here.” Pushing himself back upright, Grif returned to his drink. “I mean, yeah, you’re the town drunk and all but you’re still pretty with it and shit. Bet you didn’t end up here by accident.”

The sudden personal question made North choke on his beer. For an instant, time froze and sudden vertigo made his head swim.

North clutched at his battered glass, panic building inside him. How could he answer? What could he say? Grif had become-- a friend? North had worked for the people who’d recruited him, messed with him--

\--they’d messed with his life. Him, Washington, York, Tex, the Director, South--

_Dead, dead, dead, all dead, you were part of it, your responsibility--_

\--they’d messed with his life and they hadn't even helped anyone. They all just fought and died and hurt people.

_THETA come back please don’t be scared please please please why maine why--_

_I was a Freelancer. I was in the program that got you stuck you in a box canyon and tortured you. We ruined your life, ruined my life, I lost Theta, lost South my sister, gone all gone gone gone--_

Something started poking at his face, patting his cheek. Slowly, he roaring in his ears began to subside and the usual sounds of the bar returned as well as something else..

“--it, shit, shit, shit, Nick, man, don’t do this to me. You’re fine, forget I asked anything. Nick? You in there? Come on, you’re okay. Whatever it is, you’re not there.” 

North blinked. Nick. He was Nick here, not North. He was--

“You’re on Chorus, the shit planet with the endless civil war going on. Nick? You hear me? You’re okay. You work in a factory, you grow food and sell it. You’re drunk and you’re funny and you’re smart and you’re not a soldier anymore.”

 _Chorus_. He remembered Chorus. One the edge of civilized space, far from the war and Project Freelancer. It was alone, forgotten by both sides. He’d found it, a rare supply ship delivering goods to the planet. He’s hitched a ride…

He blinked, grabbing Grif’s hand and pulling it away from his face. Even through their metal gauntlets, Grif’s overlarge mitt was solid, anchoring him to _here_ and _now_.

North took a deep breath, then another, blinking again and again, slowly pulling his mind out of its toxic downward spiral. Looking up, he let his eyes sweep the bar. Barkeep was watching, eyes wary but no one else seemed to have noticed his panic. Good, that was-- he had to hide or they’d find him, hurt him again, he didn’t know what else he could lose--

“Keep breathing, man. Deep breaths. Your heart’s going, like, a million miles an hour. Just breath with me, it’s okay. In and out. You’re okay.”

Grif’s hand rotated, took hold of his and squeezed, slow and steady, over and over. And slowly, North got his own breath to match, in and out, slow and steady, focusing all his attention on that single point of contact. Finally, he felt his heart start to slow, the adrenaline surging in his veins slowly subsiding.

Though the panic attack was finally fading away, North could feel his hands shaking. Suddenly exhausted, he just wanted to go home and hide, to peel off the armor he lived in and crawl into bed. The panic had also burned away much of the alcohol in his blood. Not all of it but he felt far more clearheaded than he had been in a while.

His free hand groped for his forgotten beer. He drank, downing every drop. When he set the glass back down, he found Grif watching him with intense eyes. Neither tried to break their handhold, the anchor that had helped pull him out of his panic.

“Haven’t-- haven’t had that happen for awhile,” he finally stuttered, his breath still shaky.

“It’s fine. I mean,” Grif hesitated, “it happens. It’s fine. Um. I’m sorry. For-- for asking-- I won’t bring it up again.”

“S’alright.” North sighed. He really did want to leave now. But he also wanted Grif to stay with him. Grif was-- solid, real. He took up more space than anyone North had met in a long time, physically and otherwise, and that was very comforting.

Grif gave their still joined hands a small shake, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Hey, you look like you just ran a marathon. You got a room or something? It might not hurt to call it early tonight.”

“I-- yeah, I’ve got a place.” He hesitated. “Come with me?” The words were blurted out before he could stop them, rethink asking. He didn’t want to be alone, not with the echo of Theta screaming extra loud in his mind.

Grif’s eyes widened and his golden brown skin changed color slightly. “Sure. I mean, you probably shouldn’t head out by yourself.” There was a hint of nerves in his voice and the speed with which he downed his mostly untouched beer was certainly suggestive. But once the glass was empty and he’d set it back on the table, he didn’t hesitate to pull his helmet back on and climb out of the booth, slinging his weapon onto his back.

North followed suit and found the enclosed environment of his helmet was almost comforting. It was familiar, certainly. He’d spent more time over the last ten years in armor than out of it. Taking a deep breath, he gave the other man a brief nod and one after another, wound their way through the crowd and left the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned to a commenter, North has basically put himself on hold since losing Theta. It's going to hurt but it's finally time to start processing the trauma response to that awful day.


	3. Chapter 3

As they stepped into the dark night, Grif automatically took a look around, scanning the area for possible threats. Fortunately, it was a night much like all the others that saw him in the rundown bar: quiet and peaceful. If it wasn’t for the shattered buildings surrounding them, with collapsed roofs and blown out windows, it would almost seem serene. But the damage and debris that surrounded them instead transformed the area into a broken and battered warzone.

There were a few walking paths leading to and from the bar: the one to the left of the door wound up and out of the town where, two kilometers out, there was a remote New Republic watchpost guarding the secret underground headquarters. The other paths led to different points within the town such as the hydroponics factory, the lone medical clinic, and an energy plant with just enough power to keep those two facilities running.

North, fading into the night with his unpainted armor, gestured towards one of the smaller paths. “This way,” he murmured and started down the path. Grif fell into step beside him, his gait slightly uneven as he favored his right leg. “The folks here prefer things cluttered,” North explained as they passed the burned out remains of a Mongoose, glad to have something to distract him from the panic lingering at the edges of his mind. “It helps keep the big troop divisions and vehicles out. And lower foot traffic means it’s easier to hide the bar.”

“The higher ups don’t send units in to clear the paths?” Grif asked.

“They do. And those are the units that come to the bar. So they have plenty of motivation to help keep things the way they are.”

“The joy of a self-perpetuating system.”

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the two men to reach the dilapidated shack North called home.

“It’s not much,” North said as he keyed open the door and turned on the overhead light, “but there’s a small generator, the walls are thick, and the roof doesn’t leak.”

“This is a pretty far walk to work,” Grif noted as he followed North inside, stopping briefly to look up at the factory looming over the town.

“I’d prefer to be even further if I could.” Once his companion had limped into the shack, North secured the door and pulled off his helmet. “Any further out, though, and you’re in danger of being bombed. Neither army has any kind of precision bombs left so there’s a decently sized area around the factory that’s considered ‘safe’ from bombardment. Most everyone lives in that area. What happened to your leg?”

Grif jerked in surprise at the sudden question. He’d only been half listening to Nick talk as he looked around the small shack with interest. “Huh? Oh, that. Tucker happened,” he said with a grimace.

“Tucker’s on Blue Team, right?”

Nodding, Grif watched for a moment as Nick started to peel off his dull gray armor then began to follow suit. It wasn’t long before the bare concrete floor was littered with armor, Grif’s in a loose messy pile while Nick’s was more neatly arranged.

“Tucker’s been power tripping hard, thinks he’s in charge of Blue Team now that their leader’s been captured by the Feds,” Grif explained once he had removed the last piece of his armor. Stretching happily, he grunted as he finally got his joints to pop. “I mean, it’s been handy with the soldiers Kimball gave me. I just send them to Tucker and he runs them through all the drills and stuff he’s come up with. The downside is that he’s been after me and the other ‘Captains’ to do our own training. Bastard got my knee with some fancy pressure point-flip-kick thing he picked up somewhere.” Grif glared down at his leg. There was a nasty bruise hidden under his black bodysuit thanks to that jerk.

Nick turned to him once he’d finished lighting a few oil lamps hanging from hooks on the walls. The flickering flames and dim light from the bulb overhead gave the space an eerie feel to it. Darkness clung to the edges of the room and distorted shadows twisted on the ground as the light caught on the few pieces of furniture.

“Pressure point-flip-kick thing?” Nick’s eyes were thoughtful as he repeated Grif’s description of the move Tucker had used that morning. “That actually sounds kind of familiar.”

“I-- that’s great but, uh, shouldn’t you be, I dunno, resting or something?” The expression on Nick’s face was making Grif nervous. He’d seen it before. It usually heralded some kind of Teaching Moment. He edged back towards the wall and flashed him a friendly grin. “I mean, you did just have a nasty moment back in the bar-”

“Tell you what,” Nick grinned, a trace of dark humor appearing in his eyes. “I can show you how to counter that move Tucker used or,” he paused for effect, “we can have a nice long talk about our _feelings_.”

“Gladiatorial combat it is,” Grif immediately replied. He gave the other man a sour look. “You’re clearly feeling better.”

“Kinda. Sparring will help.” Glancing around, he started gently kicking armor pieces out of the center of the room. There wasn’t much free space but it would have to do.

Grif watched him shuffle things around, standing next to the mattress on the floor while the other man worked. Nick’s face looked both thoughtful and somewhat amused. He really wished, just for a moment, that he knew what he was thinking.

Once the shack had been cleared to his satisfaction, Nick planted his hands on his hips and jerked his head, silently gesturing for Grif to step forward. “Tell me how it when down this morning. You were sparring with Tucker. What did you do before he got your leg?”

Grif sighed and trudged forward. If he hadn’t been feeling guilty for causing Nick to have a meltdown earlier…

“I tried to punch him. He grabbed my arm, twisted it, then suddenly he was next to me and yanking my arm. After that, he kicked my knee and I went down. It really _hurt_.” Grif’s expression was sour. He folded his arms in front of his chest and came to a stop a few feet in front the other man.

“Have you ever focused on any kind of fighting style before?” Nick asked, cocking his head to the side. “Wrestling, any kind of martial arts, weapons, anything like that?”

“Focused on-” he echoed. Then, with a bark of laughter, shook his head. “Are you kidding me? I got into fights as a kid. Punched out a guy who tried to grope my sister. Broke a rich kid’s teeth when he wouldn’t shut up about his stupid fucking car. That’s it.”

“Nothing during Basic?”

“Basic training consisted of a sergeant yelling at me that I was too fat and stupid to be useful and that I should do everyone a favor and go stand in front of a moving bus. So no, there was no _fancy special training_ during Basic.”

“Right. Well,” Nick gave him a thorough once over, “I have a suggestion if you don’t mind hearing it. You’re big, Grif. You’re built like a tank. I- I knew one other guy once who was kinda similar to you.” There was a pause and something rippled across Nick’s face, a strange mixture of anger, sadness, loss, and confusion. He gave himself a small shake and pressed on. “He, uh, he was a brawler. All brute force and no finesse. And he could take a hit. He wasn’t the best fighter in my- my squad--” Nick hesitated again. “He wasn’t the best but he could take more damage than anyone else I’ve ever met. So no matter how much he got hit, he’d just get back up again. And _that_ , I think, is a style that would work for you.”

“Meaning, what exactly?”

“Meaning, once I’m done with you, your buddies are in for a _nasty_ shock.”

On an average day since joining the military, Grif had actively worked to avoid combat, to avoid practice and sparring, and anything that he didn’t want to do. He’d never wanted to sign up for this stupid war or to be cannon fodder for Project Freelancer. Sparring with Nick, however, was a _completely_ different experience than any kind of training he’d undergone in the past. The tall, lanky man had a lot more muscle than he looked and didn’t pull any of his punches. But where Sarge and his past instructors had just yelled and cursed at him, Nick laughed and called him out each time he didn’t get back into a fighting stance or when he telegraphed a move. Instead of tearing him down, Nick just wanted to work _with_ him to make him better, faster, stronger.

For the first time ever, Grif actually enjoyed the mock fighting. No, not enjoy. He didn’t enjoy getting punched or kicked. But it was _satisfying_. Like cracking a tourist’s ribs when he got handsy with a pre-teen Kai on the beach or breaking their foster father’s nose when he went into a flying rage over some mud that’d been tracked into the house. This wasn’t work -- this was an _achievement_. Nick didn’t tell him to just do better or berate him for not executing some fancy takedown properly. He just wanted Grif to do one thing: hit and hit and hit until his enemy dropped.

Eventually, both men were panting and gasping with exhaustion, muscles aching from the unexpected strain and new bruises forming under their mesh bodysuits.

“Alright, I yield,” Grif groaned. He dropped bonelessly to the floor and sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo. “As if getting my ass kicked by Tucker this morning wasn’t enough. I’m not going be able to move tomorrow.”

“Hah, you didn’t do too bad,” North panted. He dropped to the floor next to Grif and started to stretch. Halfway through, he gave up and flopped onto his back. “I didn’t realize I was so out of shape. God, I’m getting old.”

“Out of shape? Christ.” Staring at the ceiling, Grif absently traced the cracks in the ceiling. “I don’t even want to imagine what you could do if you were ‘in shape’,” he said. Then, “How old?”

“Hm? Oh, uh, thirty-ish?” North blinked at the ceiling. “I’m not actually sure. I haven’t counted in a long time. You?”

“Late twenties,” Grif replied. Like Nick, he didn't try to calculate the exact number. Experimentally, he lifted his arms above his head, trying to stretch out his sore muscles, then winced at the immediate painful twinge. “God, I already hurt. This is the most stuff I’ve done in a single day in a really long time.”

“Mm, I hope it was worth it,” North replied. “You’re not going to be the only one having trouble moving tomorrow,” he groaned, slowly rolling over onto his side. His bed wasn’t far. Maybe if he kept rolling he could make it onto the mattress. Having just a pallet on the floor suddenly seemed like the best thing ever.

“Hey.” A hand suddenly poked at his back. “How you feeling? You know, uh, generally speaking.”

North didn’t answer right away, instead taking a few moments to consider the question. “I’m… I’m okay,” he finally replied. “Tired but okay.”

Grif let out a soft grunt. The two men lay still and silent in the shack for several long minutes. Finally, the simulation soldier groaned and rolled over, pushing himself upright. “I gotta get back.”

“... right.”

It took both of them to locate all the pieces of Grif’s armor from where they’d been kicked. It took even longer for Grif to suit back up. Finally, he swung his rifle onto his back and paused in front of the door, helmet held awkwardly in his hands. With a sudden grin, he bumped his shoulder against the other man’s, sending him staggering back several steps.

“See you tomorrow,” Grif promised, then, putting on his helmet, he left.

North stood in the quiet space, listening for the faint sound of Grif’s footsteps moving away into the night. When even the sound of gravel crunching underfoot faded away, he sighed and started to pull his own armor back on. The safe zone around the factory wasn’t quite as secure as he’d described. And accidents did happen. But even as he blew out the oil lamps and turned off the overhead light, the darkness didn’t seem quite as bad as usual.  

Work was going to be hell tomorrow but at least he’d get to see Grif at the end of it.


	4. Chapter 4

North hummed softly to himself as the message icon in his HUD flickered again, the number of unread messages ticking up again. The New Republic had started fortifying the town, building up stronger defenses and as part of that, they’d gotten short range comms working again. And with the comms working, everyone was going a bit nuts messaging back and forth.

Finally, the shift clock turned to a new hour and he got to go on his mid-morning break. Even as he walked away from the packaging line, he was toggling the messages, eager to see what Grif had to say.

_DG: Felix keeps pushing Kimball to attack the Feds in a nearby outpost_

_DG: it’s such bullshit, they’re not doing anything_

_DG: plus, they have, like, a crap ton of machine guns_

_DG: HEY, you there? your shitty ass house didn’t collapse on you or anything, right?_

_DG: seriously, you better not be dead_

_DG: U BASTARD ANSWER ME_

_DG: did a Fed sneak in and kill you overnight? do I have to avenge you or something? that’s, like, a shit-ton of work. the investigation, the planning, actually capturing the guy, coming up with catchy one-liners. you’re not seriously going to make me do all that, right?_

North grinned inside his helmet. And to think Grif liked to pretend he didn’t care. He quickly wrote his own message.

_ND: Can’t a guy pack tiny peas into cardboard boxes in peace?_

_DG: ASSHOLE. look at you messaging from the grave_

_ND: I might throw myself out the window if we’re still packing peas tomorrow. Tiny peas + armored gauntlets =\= fun times._

_ND: You coming back down tonight? Any more missed nights and I start interviewing new drinking buddies_

_DG: that’s our thing you whore_

_DG: be a few hours before Kimball and Felix stop riding our asses to train more. WE TRAINED ALL FUCKING DAY YESTERDAY WHAT MORE DO THEY WANT_

_ND: Steady improvement over time?_

_DG: bitch, please. we are the bottom of the barrel. no amount of training is going to make us not suck._

_ND: I’d be more than happy to help you practice sucking._

_DG: oh god, now you’re making innuendo jokes. bad enough having Tucker hitting on anyone that so much as looks at him. you need to stop working in the factory, your brain is melting_

_ND: It was just a suggestion._

_ND: Let me know if you want help getting all hot and sweaty._

_DG: i say again WHORE_

_ND: My shift break is up. Back to the world of teeny tiny peas…_

_DG: HAVE FUN_

_DG: i’ll try to make it down tonight_

_ND: Awesome._

Rock exploded next to Grif’s head as he read Nick’s final message, sending him diving for the ground. “Goddamn it, Tucker!” he yelled as he as dirt flew into the air. “You almost hit me!”

“I will if you don’t get back to running!”

“Kiss my ass!” With a fresh round of cursing, Grif scrambled to his feet and reluctantly returned to jogging. God, he hated running.

Simmons breezed past him yet again, barely winded. “This is lazy, even for you!” he called out as he hurtled down the well worn path. “You haven’t even finished one lap yet!”

“Fuck this,” Grif snarled and swerved off the track, heading for their barracks. Then, another _crack_ split the air and dirt clods became airborne.

“No way, dude!” Tucker sprinted up and skidded to a stop in front of Grif, one of his squad members on his heels. “You either run or we spar. That’s the deal.”

“I am not one of your soldiers, Tucker,” Grif growled, a note of warning in his voice. “You don’t get to order me around.”

Wordlessly, Tucker tossed his battle rifle to Palomo. “Sparring it is.” He tilted his head to the side as he slid into a combat stance. “Either we do this right now or I go find Felix and ask him to go a few rounds with you.”

Grif sighed. And waited.

“Heh. Bet he could pound on you _all day_.”

“Tucker, you don’t want to do this,” Grif warned even as he took a step back and shifted into the basic guard position Nick had taught him. “I’m done with this training bullshit.”

“Please, you need it more than anyone else here.” The smirk was clear in Tucker’s voice. The aquamarine soldier started bouncing from foot to foot, waiting for the right moment to attack as a small crowd began to gather around them.

Simmons’s voice suddenly cut through the small clearing. “Grif, why can’t you just do the laps? You know how this is going to end!”

Grif’s head snapped around as he leveled a harsh glare at the other Red. “You stay out of this!”

Without hesitation, Tucker lunged forward, fists aimed straight at Grif’s chest.

 _Don’t flinch away. You can absorb a lot more damage than you think_.

Nick’s voice flashed through Grif’s head, echoing words spoken during one of their many sparring matches over the last few weeks.

Tucker’s fists slammed into his breastplate, right jab, left cross. Grif grunted at the sudden blows but refused to flinch the way he usually did. Instead, he absorbed most of the impact and braced against his back leg. Smirked as he saw Tucker hesitate. Then he uncoiled his own attack, his meaty fists slamming once, twice into the other soldier’s gut. Tucker let out a loud _oof_ , doubling over as air was forced out of his lungs. He didn’t see the final blow before it slammed into the side of his head and sent him flying. Metal rebounded off of metal as Tucker skidded off dirt and rocks.

“-- the fuck?” someone in the crowd whispered.

Inside the privacy of his helmet, Grif grinned ear to ear.

“The hell, man?” groaned Tucker. Grunting, he pushed himself upright, rose to his feet. “Right, you wanna do this for real? Fine by me.” Exploding into motion, he dove forward, left hand stretched out to grab Grif. Seizing the edge of his chest plate, Tucker jerked him sideways, pulling him off balance and punching him in the head.

Stars exploded in Grif’s vision but unlike past fights, newly trained instincts roared into action and an arm lashed out, wrapping around Tucker’s neck and dragging him down beneath him as he fell.

Tucker let out a wordless scream as Grif landed solidly on top of him. A few moments later, Grif felt his head clear and he rolled onto his feet. Meanwhile, Tucker wobbled to his hands and knees, confused and disoriented. Stalking up to him, Grif grabbed his backplate, jerked him upright, and straight into a headlock.

“I told you,” Grif growled into Tucker’s audio pickup, dragging him backwards through the dirt, “I’m done with this bullshit. I’m going to my bunk. I’m going to take a nap.” Tucker’s heels skidded off rocks and his hands flailed ineffectively at the arm wrapped around his throat. “You’re going to leave me alone,” Grif added and then flung Tucker back onto the ground, adding a quick kick to his ribs for emphasis.

Tucker did not get back up.

Satisfied, Grif resumed his march to the barracks. The crowd that had gathered to watch the fight melted away as his passed by. Helmets bobbed back and forth as the New Republic soldiers whispered amongst themselves, the air filled with soft sounds of excitement.

Once the orange soldier disappeared, Simmons scrambled forward to help Tucker sit up. “Are you alright?” he demanded, voice shocked and frantic. “I can’t believe Grif-- GRIF-- kicked your ass like that!”

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Tucker asked as Simmons hauled him upright. He sounding dazed. “I died and now I’m in hell just like Grandma always said I’d end up.”

“You’re not dead,” Simmons replied. He cast a confused look at the barracks. “Grif just-- He actually fought you. Like, for real. He took it _seriously_.”

“He _really_ hates running, doesn’t he?”

“I guess. I mean--” Simmons swallowed. “I’ve never seen him move like that. Not even against the Meta.”

“Captain Tucker, are you alright?” Palomo sounded aghast at the sight of his commander on the ground. “I can’t believe Captain Grif beat you like that. It was incredible!”

“I just-- when the hell did Grif learn to fight?” Tucker stared down at his hands, then up at the cavern ceiling, pleading to some unknown deity for answers. “That’s like-- like Donut learning how to read a map. Like Caboose understanding sarcasm. Like Tex wanting to give everyone hugs. It doesn’t happen!”

“Well, I guess he finally felt like he’d had enough.” With a helpless shrug, Simmons offered a hand to Tucker, pulling him upright once he grasped it.

Several kilometers away, North opened a new message:

_DG: I just totally kicked Tucker’s ass. tell you all about it tonight. ;)_

The rest of the packing line froze in shock as he doubled over in laughter. 

* * *

 

In between bouts of laughter, North finally managed to speak: “You realize, we’ll have to take practice up a notch now, right?” Snickering, he shook his head. “Tucker must be pissed. He’ll be gunning for you now.”

“Christ.” Grif groaned but there was still amusement in his voice. “It’s just going to be one fight after another now, each more deadly than the last.” His eyes brightened and he leaned in close over the booth table, grinning widely. “It will be a no holds barred fight to determine exactly who is the strongest in the galaxy.”

“With lots of monologuing and wildly impractical costumes?” North guessed, having gotten quite a good handle on Grif’s usual trains of thought over the past few weeks.

“Insanely impractical,” Grif confirmed. Leaning back, he took his time drinking his beer. “I gotta admit, it was kinda nice not to be the one breathing dirt for once,” he admitted once he’d set down his glass. “If I’d realize that it was going to lead to a Galactic Battle Royale, well, I probably would have turned you down but, eh.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

“Man, I am glad I’m only dealing with Tucker right now.” Shaking his head, Grif mentally ran through all the other ways the earlier fight could have ended. “If that had been Wash? Or, God help me, Carolina? I’d be dead. Flattened. Splattered all over the landscape.”

North froze mid-drink. “Wh- what did you just say?” he choked out. Those names-- he must have misheard. There was _no way_ Grif had just said--

“Huh?” Grif blinked in confusion. “Uh, I said that I’m glad I fought Tucker. Um, that if it’d been either Wash or Carolina, I’d have gotten my ass kicked.” Brow furrowing, he thought through his statement. “Oh, right, I don’t think I’ve mentioned them specifically. They’re newcomers to the whole Red vs. Blue thing. Wash, Washington, I mean, he’s Blue Leader now. I’m, uh, not sure Carolina’s picked a team but she usually hangs around Wash if she’s not off somewhere else kicking ass. Wash is one of the guys the Feds captured. Him and Sarge, Donut, and Lopez. And we never found Carolina after the crash so we don’t actually know what happened to her.”

North took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the beginning of a panic attack start to claw its way up his throat. His heart started to beat faster and it was getting harder to get a decent lungfull of air. Washington and Carolina. Those names-- those _code names_ , being spoken by a _Simulation Trooper_ \--

“Dude, you alright?” Grif’s hand suddenly seized his. “You look bad. Do you need air? Yeah, you need air.” His voice was anxious, eyes worried. “Put your helmet on,” he ordered, voice firm. “We’re leaving.”

Hands clumsy, North complied. He fumbled the latches, struggling to secure his helmet until Grif reached over and did them for him. Then, the orange soldier took hold of his elbow and tugged him from the booth and quickly led him out of the busy establishment.

The familiar silence of the mostly powerless city was a comforting change from the boisterous noise of the bar. Grif steered him over to the side of the ramshackle building and pressed him up against the wall.

“Deep breaths,” Grif ordered in the same firm voice. “In through the nose, out through the mouth and all that shit. In and out, you can do it.”

They stood in the shadows of the bar for a long time. North struggled to bring his racing heart and gasping breath under control. Meanwhile, Grif hovered close, lending North the comfort of his presence without crowding him. When his hands mostly stopped shaking and the panic urging him to _runhidefleecower_ began to subside, North gave the orange soldier a shaky nod.

“Alright, we’re heading to your shack.” Grif’s voice informed him.

North didn’t argue.

The walk to his small home was silent. Grif dogged to his heels, staying close in case he had another attack. Fortunately, they arrived without incident and once inside, Grif started stripping him of his armor. North did his best to help and once his own armor was off, they made quick work of Grif’s.

North sank down onto the worn mattress and watched as Grif shuffled the armor pieces to the spots on the concrete floor that had become their unofficial home whenever he visited. Once the last piece was shoved away, Grif lowered himself down beside him on the mattress and they sat in silence for several minutes.

Finally, North spoke, staring straight ahead, not daring to look at the man that had become his friend. “I came to Chorus because I was running. After everything that had happened, I just-- I couldn’t deal with it. I wanted to run, wanted to die but couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger.” He stopped, taking a few more deep breaths. Grif stayed silent beside him, waiting to hear his full confession.

“I was in Project Freelancer,” North finally whispered. Beside him, Grif inhaled sharply. “I was a Freelancer like-- like Carolina and Wash. But when the program imploded, I left. Ran. It was just me and my sister, North and South Dakota. We ran and ran but in the end--” his fragmented memories rose up like a tsunami, that pivotal, deadly day reaching out with its poisonous tendrils to envelop him once more. “I don’t know why but another Freelancer started hunting us. He caught us. And--

“He took Theta. He shot me and held me down and he _ripped_ Theta out,” North wailed, grief tearing into him. Squeezing his eyes closed, he hid his face in his hands. “He screamed. He was _so scared_. He was-- he was like a little kid. He loved fireworks and skateboards and-- I was supposed to protect him. And I failed!” Tears started to leak from his eyes, pooling in his hands. “I can still hear him screaming. It’s like a burning hole in my head,” he whimpered. “I just want it to stop hurting but it won’t. No matter what I do.” His fingers arched, digging into his tired flesh.

And then the memory of burning pain lanced through him. _Theta was screaming. Just screaming without stop_. North howled as Theta’s pain and terror lashed him, unknowingly starting to claw at his face, his hair. His fingernails gouged his skin, tearing and ripping the tender flesh until blood was dripping down his face.

Hands seized him and he lashed out, hit flesh-- but they just returned, wrapping around him and engulfing him, pinning his hands in place. North screaming, jerked, tried to break free but the hands, the Other, was relentless.

Suddenly, the world tipped over and they were sideways on a cushy surface. A leg wound around his, pinning them in place as he tried to kick. And as North was held firm against a broad chest, a new sound broke through to him.

“You’re okay, you’re safe. You’re on the planet Chorus. No one’s going to hurt you.”

North struggled weakly against the chest, against the enveloping arms, confused and uncertain what was being said. He couldn’t-- couldn’t process the words. But the voice, the tone--

It made him feel safe.

Gradually, the fight left him and the words started to make sense. The Other stayed, promising over and over that he was safe. He felt the rumble of a beating heart and heard the steady rush of air in the chest under his ear. The arms wrapped around him transformed from a deadly prison to a comforting embrace. Finally, seeming an eternity after North began his painful confession, he slid into an exhausted, uneasy slumber.

As the former Freelancer’s breathing deepened and evened out, Grif sighed and loosened his tight hold on the taller man. He suppressed a shudder as he remembered how Nick, rather, how North Dakota’s eyes had turned wild, how what little color he had in his skin drained away as his mind relived its greatest horror. It was when North started tearing out hair and gouging his skin that he’d felt it necessary to intervene, lest the broken man hurt himself further.

But now Ni-- North Dakota was asleep, exhausted by the flashback, the panic attack, and his mindless, reflexive defense when Grif took hold of him. Unwinding himself from clinging limbs, Grif stood and hurried over to the small concrete sink on the far wall, wetting the rag hanging on the lip with the meager amount of water that emerged from the faucet. Returning to the Freelancer’s side, Grif carefully cleaned away the blood and sweat on North’s face and hands. Finally, tossing the rag back into the sink, Grif curled up next to the other man, unwilling to leave him alone when there was still a chance he’d wake up in that lost state. Moments later, North shifted in his sleep, a hand blindly groping until it fisted the black mesh of his bodysuit and then the rest of the tall Freelancer followed, pressing up against Grif’s chest like a limpet.

Draping his arm loosely around him, Grif sighed softly in resignation. Damaged Freelancers were supposed to be Blue Team problems. But it seemed this one was his responsibility. Closing his eyes, Grif resolved to deal with all this in the morning. It was going to be one hell of  a bumpy ride.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a sour taste in North’s mouth when he woke up. He grimaced, face scrunching as he instinctively worked his jaw, trying to get rid of the flavor of stale beer and stress. It didn’t work, of course, leaving him to sigh and tug the covers to his chin and press closer to the warm body tucked behind him.

… which was odd, now that he’d noticed it.

A heavy arm lay draped over his waist and a pair of knees rested against the back of his thighs. As he focused, North realized there was a head resting against his back and hair tickling the base of his neck while his unknown guest snored softly behind him.

‘What did I do last night?’ he thought in bewilderment. He almost never brought company home these days. He spent his evenings with--

The memory of the night before came crashing down. North’s eyes flew open and he found himself staring at the wall next to his bunk, the room faintly illuminated by the sunlight coming in through one of the mostly boarded up windows.

He’d told Grif about his involvement in Project Freelancer. And instead of having a calm, rational discussion like he’d vaguely planned, he’d fallen apart. He remembered being in the bar, coming back home, starting to tell Grif about the program--

Talking about Theta had been what triggered the meltdown. He didn’t remember a lot after that. Just the pain of Maine’s attack and the _soundfeeling_ of his A.I.’s terrified screams. Somehow, Grif had broken through his flashback, anchored him enough in the present that he must have finally passed out.

And now what?

He didn’t even know what time it was. He had to get to work, Grif had to get back to the New Republic Base. He’d never stayed the night before, what if he got in trouble?

_(North was working very hard not to acknowledge how much he liked having Grif next to him, how much it meant to him that he’d stayed.)_

After some careful wiggling, North pulled an arm free from Grif’s embrace and reached above his head, hand groping along the floor. It only took a few tries before his fingers found the cool, scratched, and dented metal of his armor and from there, he managed to find and grab hold of his helmet. More twisting let him slide the helmet on without waking up the other man. His eyes flickered to the clock in his HUD. Relief overtook him when he saw the time: 0530 Armonia Standard Time. He wasn’t due at the factory until 0800. Tugging the helmet back off, North set it back down onto the floor and started the careful process of rolling over onto his other side without jabbing his companion with an elbow or knee.

Throughout all of the movement, Grif slept on, his scarred face relaxed and peaceful. Regretfully, North reached up and gently shook his shoulder. “Hey, Grif. It’s time to wake up,” he murmured. The Simulation soldier grunted, face crinkling slightly in displeasure. “Come on,” North coaxed, shaking his shoulder again, “I need you to wake up, buddy. We should probably talk before we do anything else today.”

After much prompting, Grif begrudgingly opened his eyes. For a moment, he just looked tired and worn out, like someone struggling to shoulder a burden far exceeding what he could manage on his own. Then, as his gaze sharpened, the expression shifted into worry. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Last night was… it was bad, man.” The arm draped over North’s waist pulled away so Grif could touch his face. “You literally started tearing into yourself,” he added, gingerly checking the thin cuts streaking down North’s face.

North winced as Grif’s thumb tugged slightly at one of the wounds. Grif abruptly snatched his hand back. With a sigh, North rolled onto his back, absently keeping one of his legs pressed against the other man’s. “Yeah, that was-- pretty bad.”

Propping his head on his hand, a grim expression settled on Grif’s face. “From what you were saying last night, what the Meta-- Maine, I mean-- what he did was fucked up. But it wasn’t your fault. Or his. Project Freelancer fucked everyone it came into contact with, coming and going.”

“Meta?”

“That’s what Wash called him,” Grif explained, his voice soft. “His A.I. apparently took control of him or something and they started going after Freelancers so they could steal their tech and A.I. units. We stopped him. He’s gone. He can’t hurt anyone else ever again or, well, no one’s hurting him anymore, either.”

“Wash is alive?” Tipping his head back, North skimmed through his admittedly spotty memory of the night before. “You mentioned him and Carolina, right?”

“Yeah, they’re alive. Or at least, they were a few weeks ago. Wash got captured by the Federal Army. We haven’t seen Carolina since we were on the ship.”

“God, the last time I saw Wash--” A familiar guilt settled in North’s stomach. “He’d just woken up in Medical. He’d gone in for implantation but it went wrong. Really wrong. Screaming and flailing and attacking people wrong. Days later, he finally woke up but he was just-- confused, hurting. It was like he wasn’t tracking what South and I were saying to him. Like he was in a different world.

“And then Tex and York attacked the ship and everything just went to hell. We were supposed to be a team but by then we were coming apart at the seams,” he continued in a miserable voice. “We all turned on each other. After the ship, our base of operations, crashed, South and I ran. We left everyone behind. Didn’t even stop to find out who’d survived.”

Grif was silent for several moments before speaking. “I don’t know all the details but I know the implantation really fucked Wash up. And all the stuff that came later just made it worse. Tucker told us a little what he knows about it after we crashed, said we needed to aware of it in case Wash needed help and he wasn’t there. Apparently Blue Team has some kind of system or something?” He shrugged helplessly. “He has nightmares a lot and sometimes when he wakes up he grabs the wrong set of memories, starts the the day thinking he’s someone else.”

North stared at Grif, horror on his face. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he whispered.

“I wish.” Grif gave him an unhappy look. “Epsilon is, or was, the Alpha’s memory. So when it implanted, it dumped all it’s memories, all of the Alpha’s memories, and all the memories of whoever was used to _make_ the Alpha into Wash’s head. Add in the identity fuckery that all you Freelancers seem to have about your lives before and after the program and that makes five different sets of memories for him to deal with everyday.”

“I should have gone back for him.” Misery and guilt were clear in every inch of North’s face.

“Yeah, you would have been real helpful with all the medical training you don’t have,” Grif shot back. North started, his expression shocked. Rolling his eyes, Grif continued, “Yeah, Project Freelancer was run by a bunch of dickweeds. But they had doctors and nurses and medicine. You had, what, a gun? A can-do attitude?”

Grif suddenly surged forward, swinging a leg over North’s to straddle him on hands and knees, staring down intently at the other men. “Those guys were _assholes_ but with Wash’s head so fucked up and the ship you were on _crashing_ , they’re probably also the only reason he lived through all that shit. You,” he shifted his weight onto one hand and jabbed a blunt finger into North’s chest, “could have done jack and shit for him. The only thing that matters now is that you’re both alive.

“You didn’t put an insane A.I. program in Wash and tell it to try and commit suicide. You didn’t torture the Alpha until it started breaking off pieces of itself. You didn’t create Project Freelancer. Do NOT,” he jabbed North’s chest again, eyes burning fiercely, “feel guilty for what those douchebags did. Worry about your own head and what you’ll say to Wash if and when you decide to talk to him.”

North swallowed at the intensity of Grif’s gaze, the weight of his impassioned words. “I’ll-- I’ll try,” he promised after several false starts. And with that oath, he suddenly also became aware of the position they were in, the intimacy the arrangement implied.

Warmth radiated out of Grif, enveloping him in cocoon of comfortable heat. Grif’s legs bracketed his hips and thighs while one hand rested next to his head. The other hand, the one that had poked him over and over, now rested lightly on his chest. The man’s head was barely a foot from his own, brow still furrowed with determination and annoyance.

The position brought a rush of heat to North’s face and he knew he was turning red. He’d always been fair skinned and the years he’d spent living on Chorus had all been in the safe confines of full body armor. Which meant his skin was so pale it was nearly translucent and therefore couldn’t hide a damned thing.

Admittedly, he technically hadn’t known Grif for all _that_ long, perhaps a month at best. But he’d told him about Project Freelancer, had confessed to him about Theta. He’d broken down and cried on him and finally drifted off to sleep feeling lost and hurt and confused but also safe next to him. Grif was funny, smarter than he gave himself credit for, and ridiculously compassionate.

And now, he was leaning over him, eyes intent and flashing with passion.

North had to admit, he’d started having… thoughts, recently… About Grif. About his russet brown skin, his warm hands, how cozy his bulky form would be to curl up against or have resting on top of him. About… other things.

Goddamn it. Judging by the heat alone, North knew his face had to look Regulation Red right now.

Above him, Grif’s eyes suddenly went wide. His chin dipped down, spine caving in slightly. His knees tightened on North’s thighs and just for a moment, he thought he felt those broad hips rock forward slightly. The pink undertones of his rich brown skin tinted almost to red.

“Are, are you good?” Grif stuttered. A faint tremor passed through him. “If you are, I should-- Armor, armor is.” He paused, cleared his throat. “We should put our armor back on,” he said carefully.

“I’m good. Armor is good,” North agreed, trying not to stammer.

For a moment, neither man moved. Then, Grif scrambled up, climbing to his feet. He hesitated, then extended a hand to North to help him up.

It didn’t take long for either man to pull on the many pieces of their armor: boots, legplates, chest and back plates, as well as others. Pulling on their helmets was a noticeable relief for them both. Living for so long in armor also meant they’d lost a lot of their ability to hide thoughts and emotions behind polite or indifferent expressions.

“Sneaking back into base is going to suck,” Grif sighed when he finally checked the time. “Feels like high school all over again,” he added. There was a note of distaste in his voice at the memory of youthful escapades.

“Ladies man were you?” North teased, pointedly ignoring the way his heart leapt in his chest.

“Hah, only with the tourists,” Grif chuckled. “Beach bum mostly. Some of the best surfing is early in the morning. Me and my sister used to sneak out to catch a few waves before school.”

“Oh.” North blinked. That was _not_ what he’d been expecting. “That-- sounds pretty fun, actually.”

“It, it was.”

Grif hesitated, feeling awkward and overly large as he stood in the middle of the small battered building. His battle rifle was a familiar weight in his hands and after a moment, he swung it up onto his back and gave North a brief nod. “I should--” the words died in his mouth and he gestured helplessly towards the door.

“Right, of course.” Giving himself a small shake, North followed the orange soldier to the door. “Thanks. For, for helping last night. And listening. I-- that was the first time I’ve spoken to anyone about that. Um, I think it helped.”

“Yeah, I’m-- it was no problem. Anytime.”

“Tonight?” North blurted out as Grif hovered in the doorway. “Usual time?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’d, I’d like that. I’ll see you then. It’s a--” Grif froze. Then coughed. “I’ll see you tonight,” he finished hurriedly.

“Great.”

After several heart pounding moments, Grif finally turned and started the long walk back to the New Republic base, swerving suddenly as he nearly walked into a pile of broken crates.

North stood in the doorway of his battered living quarters, watching until Grif vanished from view. Stepping back into the building, he shut and secured the door, then just leaned against it, needing a momentary breather. It had been a roller coaster twenty-four hours. Horrific flashbacks the night before, painful discussion about Project Freelancer this morning, and it all ended with agreeing to a sorta-kind-of date this evening?

Maybe he should just call in sick today.

He was still blushing. His cheeks were starting to ache from the grin that had spread across his face as he hid under his helmet. There were honest-to-god butterflies in his stomach causing it to twist and turn in a way it hadn’t in _years_.

He’d told Grif about Freelancer and Theta and the man hadn’t flinched or yelled or cursed at him. Instead, Grif had listened, protected him from himself, and sympathized with the pain he’d been carrying all these years. Even the fury the Simulation soldier had shown was touching, aimed as it was at the guilt that had started to sweep over him.

And tonight, when they met up for drinks, they would both know the word Grif had almost said. They’d both remember the way North had reacted while Grif was on top of him. Who knew what would happen once they’d had a few?

* * *

 

_Author Note: The NSFW chapter that follows is posted as a stand-alone story in this series. Please hop over there if that's your cup of tea. <3_

 


	6. Chapter 6

As North rounded the final bend on the footpath, he was started to see a figure in orange armor leaning against the wall next to the bar door. “Hey,” he called out once he was in earshot. “You’re early.”

“Huh?” Grif’s defeated looking posture _ (arms folded across his chest, shoulders hunched, head slouched in misery) _ straightened as his head jerked up. Spotting North, he uncoiled from the wall and gave him a small, aborted wave. “Yeah, I just-- needed to get away a little earlier today.”

A frown crossed North’s face and he stepped to the side and away from the door. “Something happen today?”

“Nah, the guys were just jerks today. So I came down early. Figured I’d just wait for you. Um, ready to go inside?” Grif tilted his head towards the ramshackle door. 

As much as North wanted to a drink, had been thinking about knocking back a few all day long, Grif’s sudden depressive mood was far more alarming than the usual intrusive thoughts counting down until his next beer.

“Are you sure you’re up for a crowd tonight?” North asked in concern, head flickering towards the door for a brief moment. He could already hear the roar of a big crowd inside.

“Of course I am,” Grif huffed, crossing his arms against his chest once more. “Why else would I do that fucking two kilometer walk every night if I didn’t want to get a fucking drink?”

“Alright, we’re going to my place,” North immediately responded. He held up a hand as Grif started to protest. “I have a stash there, so don’t worry about that. I just think the crowd might be a bit much tonight. Now come on.”

Despite his grumbles, Grif obediently fell into step next to him as North turned around. In the back of his head, an insidious voice whispered that he hadn’t missed a night in the bar in  _ years _ . Didn’t he want to turn back around and get back to routine? Barkeep  _ depended  _ on him. He was his most loyal customer. It was his  _ duty _ to go in there and get drunk.

North sucked in a started breath, shocked by the sudden turn of thought and forced himself to keep walking.

“What?” Grif snapped.

“I--” taking a deep breath, North tried to realign his focus. “Just-- realizing some things about myself.”

After a moment of silence, Grif let out a simple, “Oh.” He glanced sideways at the former Freelancer, suddenly tuning in to how rattled he suddenly sounded.

Shaken, North automatically keyed the lock on his door once they reached the building, hand slapping the light switch as they stepped inside.

Grif was already peeling off his armor as North secured the door, something that was rapidly becoming routine for the two men. North followed suit a few moments later. Before he could finish removing all the components, however, Grif pressed in close, pulling his head down for a deep kiss. North responded eagerly, reaching out to wrap his arms around the other man’s bare shoulders.

Kissing Grif was still a new experience and one North was rapidly finding he didn’t want to go without. It wasn’t a simple locking of the lips but instead a full-scale seduction. Grif bit and licked at his mouth, applying different amounts of pressure until North was gasping. His strong body leaned against North’s taller, leaner frame, teasing him with the promise of fully covering him later while his hands stroked and squeezed whatever they could reach.

By the time Grif started peeling off the last remnants of North’s armor, the blond’s face was flushed as he trembled with need. Desperately, his mind groped for thought and reason. There was something else they needed to be doing--

A hand tapped his leg, signaling for him to step out of first one, then the other armored boot. Once the last pieces of armor were removed, Grif surged back to his feet and tugged his head down for another kiss. Distantly, North noted that he was being steered towards his bed, big hands busy peeling his bodysuit away while Grif’s distracting mouth lingered on his own.

Once he felt the thin mattress hit the his ankles, North dropped down and pulled Grif after him, kicking the rest of his bodysuit off and onto the floor. Then his lover’s heavy body pressed down on him, the pressure causing a shudder of pleasure to run through him.

Noting the minute movement, Grif let out a hum of satisfaction above him. It was a much better expression for him than his earlier distress.

North blinked.

“You were upset earlier,” he said, remembering, and reached out to stop Grif from kissing him again. They needed to talk about this.

Grif frowned slightly. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, reaching up to tug North’s hand away.

“Grif, what is it?” North asked, more insistent. “I admit, I haven't known you as long as others but that seemed, well, out of character.” He paused, then added pointedly, “I’m not going to let this go. I’m worried.”

With an aggrieved sigh, the other man backed off and dropped onto the mattress on his side. North mirrored the pose while wearing an expression of concern.

“Look, it’s just stupid shit,” Grif finally stated after taking in the seriousness on North’s face. “The usual ragging from the guys. It just, I dunno, hit harder today for some reason.”

“What ragging?” North frowned.

“Like I said, the usual. Nothing I haven’t been hearing my whole life.” He shrugged.

“GRIF.”

“Fine.” With a huff, Grif rolled onto his back, teetering awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. “We were running another stupid fucking drill. It went to shit like all the others but this time, Simmons and Tucker decided it was my fault. I got a lecture about being too stupid to lead a team into anything but the mess hall, that I’m not going to fit in my armor if I get any fatter, and how I’m going to ruin the entire mission to rescue the others because I’m too incompetent to do anything right.”

“They said-- I thought they were your friends!” North blurted out, aghast. He remembered teasing Wash and York during their Freelancer days but it hadn’t been anything like that.

“Friends is pushing it. We’re more like people who’ve learned to work together despite hating each other.” Grif rolled his head towards North, his expression inscrutable. “Anyways, like I said, I’ve heard that crap all my life. It’s not new.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” North exclaimed, his face tightening in indignant rage. “It’s also a load of bullshit.” Grif snorted, causing North to scowl. “Do you remember a few nights ago that fight broke out in the bar about some random personal drama?” he demanded.

“You mean those guys who punched each other into our table?”

“Yeah, them. After you stopped yelling at them, you made them tell you what the argument was about and then proceeded to argue both sides for at least twenty minutes until they found a reasonable compromise so you’d stop mocking them. The speed with which you tackled that argument was ridiculous. They had barely finished talking before you had processed every little point they might both make. And you’ve done that kind of thing before. You see patterns and links other people miss and it still blows my mind how complex your reasoning is when you start describing it.

“As for being fat,” North snorted. “Are you a bit overweight? Yes. But holy hell, Grif, the last time I passed out in the bar, you carried me back here to sleep it off. We may not be wearing full Spartan-grade armor but it’s still heavy and you told me that you were able to move me after you’d taken your own armor off.”

“I didn’t lift you or anything,” Grif muttered. He went back to staring at the ceiling, pretending indifference but North could see how his cheeks had darkened.

“In armor, I weigh over 500 pounds, Grif,” North pointed out in a dry voice. “That’s a number you usually only see at Strongman competitions. Speaking of, have you ever gone to one of those?” Grif shook his head. “I have. There was a big competition held in my hometown every year while I was growing up. Even if you didn’t care, you couldn’t escape the ads or fail to see the competitors walking around. And they looked a lot like you.

“Bodybuilders want to  _ look _ strong. They may have sculpted muscles but they can’t do shit. Strongmen, meanwhile, are  _ actually _ strong. They build real strength and don’t worry about losing every bit of excess fat. Strongmen have thick waists,” North reached out and ran a hand across Grif’s middle, shifting closer, “because their core muscles have built up to prevent spinal damage and herniated discs. The only reason people don’t realize that big means strong is because they’ve bought into the idea that sculpted means strength. So while a bodybuilder prances around in a speedo covered in baby oil, Strongmen are lifting boulders that weigh hundreds of pounds, bench pressing giant logs, and flipping tires taller than me.

“There’s very little thickness to you that moves like fat. Sure, a little bit here and there jiggles,” he pinched lightly at some of Grif’s chub, “but even this doesn’t really sag. You don’t have much of a gut and you can flex all your muscles.”

North leaned in and tugged Grif’s face back to face his, hand cradling a burning hot cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. The other man rolled over to fit their bodies together and North could feel the power in his muscles as he moved.

“You don’t think of yourself as strong because no one talks about  _ real _ strength,” North murmured when he pulled away. “People just aren’t used to the idea that big and undefined means strong. You don’t see it in movies or on TV, just pretty, empty headed bodybuilders in carefully constructed scenes designed to make them look tough. You  _ are _ strong, Grif. And now that you’re learning how to fight, I think you’ll realize just how strong you are.”

North rested his forehead against his lover’s and fell silent, eyes drifting closed. Grif’s face was radiating heat and he suspected no one had ever spoken to him this way, had looked past his superficial appearance to the man underneath. For all his bluster, North knew Grif was one of the most vulnerable people he’d ever met.

The vague mentions he made to his childhood hinted at pain and hardship, of struggling just to survive and keep his sister safe and fed. He’d missed a lot of formal schooling as a result of their hardscrabble life, leaving bizarre and devastating gaps in what most thought of as common knowledge. He still carried the wounds of his broken childhood, hidden under layers of bluster and deflection, but you could see that his mind was brilliant if you paid attention.

Besides, no one who read philosophy for fun could ever be thought of as stupid and one of their more recent arguments had been about Grif reading Nietzsche before bed.

_ (North wasn’t opposed to Nietzsche specifically but rather how Grif had gotten hung up on the concept of Eternal Recurrence and proceeded to spend the next several hours trying to get North to speculate with him whether it was a theory about cosmic space-time or a thought experiment. As the clock had ticked past 0330, North had been ready to bludgeon him to death just to make him stop talking. They didn’t get as many nights together as North would have liked and speculating on the nature of the universe was not how he’d prefer to pass the time.) _

As the silence stretched on, North opened his eyes again. “The last point, I believe,” he said in a soft voice, “was that you’re incompetent. You can be silly and you’re easily distracted at times but you’re not incompetent. You wouldn’t be here now if that was true.” North stroked Grif’s face with his thumb, kissed him again. 

“Ass,” Grif mumbled. “What’d you have to go and make me all embarrassed for?” He wrapped his own arms around North and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

North laughed softly and nuzzled the side of his head. “I’m just telling you the truth,” he replied. “Still need a drink?”

“No.”

“Alright.” With a soft sigh, North stretched slightly, then curled up happily against Grif, tangling their legs together. A quiet night in sounded good.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a rare day that North got off work early but a surprise blight in the lettuce crops had been discovered during harvesting and only half the expected take had actually ended up in the packaging line. And so, with several hours to go until Grif might be able to get away from the New Republic base, North had gone home. Normally, he would have gone to the bar but he’d been trying to cut back on his drinking since he’d realized how many of his thoughts centered around it. 

With the hope that Grif would be able to tear himself away from the intensive five day training session that had come up unexpectedly, North didn’t bother pulling off any of his armor plates, choosing instead to stretch out on the floor fully geared, hands propped behind his head as he mused that he needed to find a hobby that wasn’t getting drunk.

He had nearly fallen asleep when the message icon in his HUD flashed. A surge of hope flooded through him; it had been days since Grif had made it in and longer since they’d been intimate.

_ (It was still amazing thinking back to their first night together as well as the following morning. Grif had teased him that being mind blowingly good at sex was a Grif family trait. North had shaken his head and scolded him for not giving him a heads up then made him massage his lower back because he wasn’t going to be able to stand in the packaging line for hours after everything they’d done the night before without some kind of help. They’d both ended up late to work that day.) _

And so, it was with great cheer that North opened the message Grif had just sent him.

_ DG: things just went weird and i don’t have a lot of time but i knew i needed to get a message to you. _

_ up front: i’m not dead or hurt. i’m not breaking up with you. no one’s found out about you. _

_ that out of the way, here’s the situation. _

_ i told you that we were training our lieutenants for a special mission. tucker went on an op and managed to grab data that told us where our friends are being held. kimball agreed to greenlight a rescue mission if we could get felix to say we’d managed to turn our troops into a suitable unit and that’s what we’ve been doing the last few days. _

_ well, we realized today that no matter what we do, we can’t turn these kids into a bunch of badass soldiers. hell, we barely count as soldiers ourselves. _

_ tucker called us out on it. and after talking it through, we’ve realized that if we’re going to rescue the others, we have to do it ourselves. if we take our squad in, we’re just going to get them killed. but us? we’re survivors. if we have any kind of specialty, that’s our’s. _

_ i know this is super shitty. _

_ i really wish i could have had time to talk to you about this or even just tell you in person. but we have to be gone before kimball finds out our plan. _

_ we have to do this. we’re the only ones on this entire planet the others can count on and right now there’s actually a decent chance we can pull this off but if we wait, this opportunity goes away. _

_ we’re not planning on dying or throwing our lives away. i sure as hell wouldn’t do that to you. you don’t deserve. _

_ we’ll come back and you’re going to bruise a rib laughing at how weird this mission ends up being. _

_ but, in the very, very small chance this don’t go our way, well, i have a little sister out there somewhere who needs someone looking after her. i know it’d be a lot to ask but i’m hoping you’d be willing to step in if something goes wrong. _

_ take care of yourself while we’re gone. i don’t want to hear from barkeep that you’ve been getting blackout drunk again. _

_ i’ll see you soon. _

_ DG: i guess this is a PS or something but since i know you’re a secretly a romantic at heart, i should probably tell you that i think i’ve fallen in love with you. please keep the teasing to a minimum when we get back. i have a reputation to maintain. _

_ DG: oh, also, i wrote a letter for my sister. just in case. can you send it to her if something happens? thanks. ===ATTACHMENT: aloha_sister.txt _

* * *

 

Far from the battered town and the underground New Republic base, two Warthogs were tearing their way down the remains of damaged roads, following the map that would lead them to their friends. 

If Simmons thought Grif was being unusually pensive as he drove their stolen military vehicle, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he was being strangely quiet himself as he rode shotgun, head swerving from side to side as he kept a wary eye out for the Feds.

Grif’s eyes flickered off the road briefly when a new message arrived.

_ ND: Please stay safe. I love you too and I’m going to yell at you for hours for pulling this when you get back. _

Hands tightened on the steering wheel, the metal creaking slightly under the pressure. Grif forced himself to take several deep breaths as he refocused his attention on the road. He was glad North had read his message. Glad North had sent a message in reply. All he had to do now was rescue the other Reds and Blues and get back safely. He had extra motivation now.

* * *

 

Two nights after Grif had vanished with the other Simulation soldiers found North back in the bar. He was being good, though. He’d told the bartender to cut up off once he’d had enough. Grif had asked him not to drink until he passed out so he was trying not to. He would be on his own for just a few more days and then his lover would be back, ready to be yelled at for frightening him so badly with this stunt.

North didn’t notice right away when the two New Republic soldiers entered the bar. He didn’t think anything of their orange and yellow accented armor, not until they walked up to his booth. Looking up, North felt a block of ice form in his stomach when he took in their grim expressions.

“You’re Nick, right?” the older of the two soldiers asked in a soft hesitating voice. “The guy Captain Grif has been hanging out with?”

When he saw North’s slow answering nod, the soldier  _ (Bitters, this was Bitters, wasn’t it?)  _ took a deep breath before continuing. “We-- we just got word of something that we thought you should know. And we knew no one else in the New Republic would know to tell you so…” his voice trailed off. His expression was haunted.

“Felix went after the Captains,” the younger soldier said, picking up where the other had left off. “To help them on their mission to rescue their friends. He told Kimball they succeeded. They, they actually did it. They found their friends. But Locus--”

“Locus killed them. All of them,” Bitters finished in a flat voice. “Matthews and I, we knew you and the Captain had gotten close so we thought we should let you know. I’m really, really sorry. Captain Grif and all the others -- they were really something special. Um, I’m really sorry to have to tell you this. Are you going to be okay?” The last question was spoken much more hesitantly than the preceding words.

North wanted to scream, to throw up. He felt bile rising in his throat as the weight of the two soldiers’ words crashed down around him. Grif was dead. He was all alone again. He’d started pulling himself out of the hole Freelancer had left him in only for all that to be swept away.

_ Grif was dead. _

He covered his face with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut as pressure built up in his eyes and unshed tears began to form. He took a deep breath, then another to keep from completely breaking down.

Standing next to the table, the two soldiers, hurting and grieving themselves, shared a worried look as the man they were pretty sure Captain Grif had been dating sat in silence. Then suddenly the strange blond man slammed his hand on the table and his eyes flew open. The light in them seemed to  _ burn _ .

“You said Locus killed him,” he snarled and jabbed a finger at the seat opposite his own. “Sit down. You’re going to tell me everything you know about him.”

The next several hours flew by in a blur. Matthews and Bitters, crammed into the booth, found themselves desperately groping for every piece of information and every rumor they’d ever heard about the ferocious mercenary Locus. The man sitting opposite them transformed over the course of the interrogation, changing from a mild mannered factory worker into a frighteningly intense soldier when they finally parted ways.

“That guy was insane,” Bitters declared to Matthews the next morning as they headed to the mess hall. “What does he think he think he’s going to do, take Locus down all by himself?  _ Felix _ hasn’t managed it. How could he possibly succeed on his own?”

“He can’t,” a cool voice interrupted them. Bitters froze as a tall soldier stepped in front of him. His armor was a mix of several different types but it was painted the tan base of the New Republic with purple and green accents. “Not yet, at least.”

“You-- what are  _ you  _ doing here?” There was a distinctly hysteric quality to Bitter’s voice.

Under his helmet, North bared his teeth in a savage grin. “I signed on this morning. The recruiter was thrilled to hear heard how  _ eager _ I was to fight for the New Republic. Locus works for the Federal Army. If I’m going to kill him, I need to make sure I’m on the right side.”

Matthews and Bitters stared aghast at man in front of him. The voice, height -- they remembered it from the night before. There was  _ no way _ Captain Grif would have approved of this. His boyfriend was a civilian who’d gone out of his way to avoid picking a side in the war. But now, here he was, wearing the colors of the New Republic with a pistol at his hip and a sniper rifle on his back.

“Grif was your commanding officer, so I’ll explain how this is going to work. We will, of course, happily and fervently serve the New Republic in whatever capacity it asks of us,” North stated in an eerily calm voice. “But starting tomorrow, when we’re not on duty, you two and the other lieutenants work for me. I’m sure you agree that the Reds and Blues didn’t deserve to die. I’m sure you agree that Locus needs to pay for what he’s done.”

North strode forward until he was towering over the two frightened members of Gold Team. “I’m going to train you,” he informed them. “It’s not going to be like what the Reds and Blues did. It’s not going to be like what you learned in the New Republic. It’s not going to be anything Felix may have shown you. I’m going to turn all of you into a weapon I can use against Locus and together we are going to make him wish had never been born.

“You can have today,” he continued in the same level tone, “to explain all of this to the others and to take time to grieve while I take care of a few loose threads. Tomorrow we get started. There will be no arguing. No reports. No complaining. Is that understood?” North eyes narrowed when there was no response. He suspected the two men were staring at him with gaping mouths. “I said, is that UNDERSTOOD?” The last word cracked like a whip.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Bitters exclaimed, feeling equal parts terror and excitement. He found himself fighting the urge to salute. How was this guy-  _ he had Private’s stripes, for goodness sakes! _ He barked orders like an officer and carried himself like Felix. Who, no,  _ what _ was he?

Beside him, Matthews didn’t seemed to have the same conflict. His hand snapped to his brow like a rocket.

“Good.” The man started to turn, then paused. “By the way, from now on? Call me North.”


	8. Chapter 8

“The motion trackers in this armor are shit,” North muttered darkly as Matthews drove their Mongoose into Armonia. Flanking them slightly behind them on either side were Jensen and Palomo on one vehicle and Smith and Bitters on another. The empty streets and abandoned buildings of the capital city loomed ominously around them and North could feel in his gut that they were driving into a trap.

Unfortunately for the New Republic, North was neither in charge nor in a position where he could suggest an alternative course of action. And ultimately, he didn’t care two whits what happened to Chorus. Right now, the only thing keeping him going was the burning need to find the mercenary known as Locus and to kill him in the slowest, most painful manner he could manage.

About half a mile behind the squad leaders marched a unit of ground forces. Officially, the four soldiers the Reds and Blues had chosen to lead their respective units were scouting out the path ahead. Unofficially, North had set them and Matthews the task of hunting down Locus. The mercenary would show himself at some point.

Amongst the ‘loose ends’ North had busied himself with on his first day in the New Republic was muddling his official assignment in the beleaguered army. He needed the resources of the Republic offered to carry out his revenge but he would get nowhere if some jumped up, two-bit sergeant on this shitty planet thought he could give  _ him _ orders.

So, with Private Nikolas Petrov assigned to a non-existent scouting unit, Agent North Dakota of Project Freelancer had the freedom to operate wherever and however he wished within the New Republic Army.

So far, everything was more or less going according plan. By the time North strolled up to the lieutenants for their first day of training, they’d been ready, even eager, to work with someone offering them a chance for revenge.

North had to hand it to the people of Chorus: they clung to their grudges.

Unfortunately, the sudden decision to attack the Federal Army at the planetary capital altered North’s training plans. Instead of building the squad leaders up as competent soldiers, he’d instead been forced to focus instead on teaching them urban survival tactics while praying luck would see them through the battle.

Now, as they rolled through the streets of Armonia, North kept a trained eye out for the enemy, sniper rifle cradled comfortably in his hands. For a moment, the motion tracker in North’s HUD flared-- and then went dark. He cursed again, infuriated by the cut-rate equipement he was dealing with. There was a 50-50 chance it was either a malfunction or they were being watched.

North raised a hand, calling for the vehicles to stop. “We’ll continue on foot,” he ordered as the Republic soldiers dismounted. “Remember where we parked, everybody.”

It took a few minutes for the squad to sort itself out and to send the ground forces on ahead. North paced back and forth nearby, skin crawling with the sensation of invisible eyes watching him. In the background, he could hear his soldiers talking about superheros and Grif’s absence cut through him like a knife. He would have enjoyed the discussion.

Pushing the ache aside, North spun to glare at his unit. “Alright, let’s move,” he ordered, a flicker of cold satisfaction running through him when they quickly fell into line to march deeper into the city.

“What about  _ him _ ?” he heard Jensen whisper from behind him.

“He’s Nick Fury,” Palomo responded in a low voice. “Baddass with a mysterious background who only shows up when you most need him? Totally the master super spy himself.”

“Do you think he has an eyepatch?”

Unnoticed by the soldiers, a group of space pirates decloaked nearby.

“Keep interference to a minimum,” one of them ordered. “Let them kill each other and only target those who try to escape.”

“Heh. This is going to be too easy,” another of the pirates commented. Then paused, when North paused, turning briefly to look behind him. “He might be a problem.”

“Nah, he’ll just be cannon fodder like all the others.”

* * *

 

“Duck!” Jensen screamed as Federal Army soldiers suddenly swarmed them. They all dove for the floor just in time for the air to crack with gunfire and the Feds suddenly fell around them.

“Circular firing squad,” North muttered as he pushed himself up. His eyes darted across the room, flickered to his motion trackers. “Everyone take cover,” he shouted, pointing towards a large heap of rubble nearby. “I knew this was a trap,” North snarled as he made sure his soldiers were safely behind the concrete heap.

Smith pressed close to their cover. “What do we do?” he begged, staring hopelessly at North. The other lieutenants turned to face him as well.

“We survive,” North answered shortly. He peered around the rubble, cursing under his breath as he saw more Feds taking cover nearby. “Unless we get other orders, our mission is now to survive and escape the city.”

One of the Fed soldiers stood up, his head popping up over the top of the fortification he’d been sheltered behind. North swung his sniper rifle up and fired in a single blurred motion. The Fed fell, never to rise again.

“Badass,” Palomo whispered.

North pulled back and turned to his troops. “Check your ammo,” he ordered. “Don’t fire unless you have to. Do what I tell you without hesitation and we might get out of this. Bitters, you and Matthews watch our backs. Keep an eye out for a strange shimmer; I think there are cloaked soldiers nearby. Smith, Palomo, watch our sides. Jensen, you’re with me on point. We need to take the Feds out and start a push to the edge of the city. We pick up whoever we can on the way out and we don’t stop moving.”

The rapid-fire orders settled the nerves of the Chorus soldiers. Their hands were fast and sure as they checked their ammo and their weapons before moving into position. For the first time since the barriers had gone up and the Feds had surrounded them, it suddenly felt like they might survive.

They had to.

The fight in the streets of Armonia dragged on. Somehow, North’s battered unit survived. Under his steady guidance, they were taking down Federal soldiers and moving from building to building. They scavenged ammunition and picked up other New Republic troops as they encountered survivors. The unit doubled in size and North now had ten soldiers to protect.

They fought. They ran. North seemed to be everywhere at once, punching, kicking, and beating the Feds with the butt of his rifle until they dropped so he could finish them off with a single shot to the head. He never missed, no bullet was wasted. The Freelancer was utterly ruthless and his unit empowered by his deadly force.

“Big unit up ahead, sir,” Matthews reported as he dashed back from his short scouting run. “At least two dozen Feds guarding the plaza. They’ve got a lot of cover and vehicles.”

“The blockades are doing their job,” Smith added as he hurried after him. “The street they’re guarding is the only way through.”

“Bitters, you said you lived in this part of Armonia. How long would it take to go around?” North asked, turning to the soldier

“Uh, awhile? I think?” Shaking his head, Bitters continued, “I was young and it was a long time ago so I’m not sure.”

“Alright.” Taking a deep breath, North looked around at his unit. “This’ll be interesting. Here’s what we’re going to-”

The screens in the plaza, the TVs in the window-- every visual and audio device, including the comms systems suddenly lit up with a flash of light and a roar of static before suddenly transforming into an image of the mercenary Felix.

_ “Once the Feds and rebels kill each other, I don’t know what I’m going to do! I mean, we’ve been playing these guys for years!” Felix’s voice was boastful, sneering as he strutted back and forth. _

_ A new voice spoke, unseen as the footage from his helmet played. “How did you convince Kimball to go to the capital?” _

_ “Vanessa? Oh,” Felix snorted, “she was easy! I just made up some story about how you all died heroically! You should have seen it man, I gave the performance of a fucking lifetime! Got all broken up, threw in a few dramatic pauses, and they just ate it up.” _

“That’s Captain Tucker!” Palomo gasped. “That’s his helmet cam, from training! He’s alive!”

_ On screen, Felix continued to monolog. “The entire reason you sim-troopers were allowed to live this long is because you’re all losers! Locus and I figured we’d let you rack up the casualty count and then kill you after a few weeks.” _

Blood was pounding in North’s ears. “They’re alive,” he realized, voice wooden with shock. “They’re all  _ alive _ .”

“I can’t believe-- we  _ trusted _ him!” Bitters snarled. “And he’s just been-- been playing us this whole time? He’s been working with Locus?!”

“What does this mean?” Smith demanded. He turned to face North. “What are your orders, sir?”

Their radios crackled again.  _ “This is Vanessa Kimball of the New Republic, ordering an immediate ceasefire!” _

_ “All soldiers of the Federal Army, stand down at once!” _ another voice yelled over the radio.

North gave himself a short shake and swung his rifle onto his back. “Holster your weapons,” he snapped, “and follow me. We need to get to the Reds and Blues.”

* * *

 

_ “Tucker? Grif? Can anyone hear me? What are your coordinates? Where are you?” _

Grif jumped when his neglected New Republic frequency crackled to life. “Kimball!” he exclaimed after he switched over his outgoing channel. “We’re all alive somehow. Tucker’s hurt but we have a doctor who’s treating him. We’re-- shit, Simmons, what’re our coordinates?” He snapped a hand out and whacked the maroon soldier.

“What? What’s-- You’re talking to Kimball?”

“Why is the leader of the New Republic calling Grif?” Sarge demanded.

The two Red soldiers ignored him. “Radio Jammer 1C,” Simmons told Grif, then followed it up with a string of numbers, which Grif passed along.

_ “We’ll send a Pelican to get you. Any other injuries? What about hostiles?” _

Grif scanned the area, eyes flitting from Donut on one side of him to Simmons and Sarge, then Lopez, Caboose and Carolina. “Wash might be hurt,” he reported. “Hostiles are dead or gone.”

_ “Understood. We just re-established contact with your lieutenants so you’ll have some familiar faces picking you up. We’ve also formed a temporary ceasefire with the Federal Army. Alert me if you need anything else for evac. I’ll call when when I have an ETA. Kimball out.” _

“Right,” Grif muttered. He turned to the others. “Kimball’s sending a Pelican. The message worked. The armies have called a cease fire.”

“When will the ship arrive?” Carolina demanded.

Grif shrugged. “Kimball said she’d call when she had an ETA.”

“Let me know,” Carolina ordered. She looked around, her gaze lingering briefly on Tucker’s prone form. “Grif, you stay with Doctor Grey and relay what she needs to Kimball. Everyone else pair up and find Wash. Keep an eye out for any hostiles we may have missed and your comms open. Report in anything weird you see. Let’s go.”

“Oh, no, little lady,” Sarge corrected. “I seem to recall you were already injured before we came here. We’ll find Washington. You’re staying with the Doc. Donut,” he continued, turning to the pink soldier, “you’re staying as well in case the Doctor needs an extra pair of hands.”

“Got it, Sarge.”

“Right!” Sarge nodded briskly. “Caboose! You’re with me. Simmons, take Lopez and fan out! We’re on Search and Rescue!”

Carolina growled softly under her breath, clearly irate at being told to stay behind.

“Here, I can give you Kimball’s frequency--” Grif started only to have the Freelancer shake her head.

“No, she knows you. With everything going on, it’s better that she have someone she trusts on the other end of the comm. And if something happens here, it’ll be better if I’m not tied up in a call.”

“Right.” Grif grimaced in his helmet. He really wanted to call North, let him know he wasn’t dead but it sounded like that wasn’t happening soon. “I guess we should go see if Doctor Grey needs anything.”

The next hour passed by in a blur. Wash was found unconscious on the far side of the jamming tower and carried to Doctor Grey by a distraught Caboose. Sarge’s ‘search and rescue’ tore through the area, rounding up the pirates’s repaired alien technology and other weapons.

Meanwhile, Grey talked Donut through checking Wash for a concussion and other injuries while she worked frantically on Tucker. Wash woke up just as Donut slid a hand into his armor, leading to a loud round of screaming and shouting.

Carolina prowled around the clearing, limping on her wounded leg but unable to just sit and wait for rescue. She kept in close touch with Sarge, monitoring every phase of the search.

Grif found himself relaying orders for a wide range of medical supplies for Grey, everything from plasma to sutures and scanning equipment. Much to everyone’s relief, Tucker came to just as the distant roar of Kimball’s Pelican could be heard over the sound of the sea.

Rescue had finally arrive.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally and accidentally lied on the post-chapter note I had on the last chapter. The two chapters a day posting schedule will CONTINUE because I have what day it is fixed in my head again. Whoops.

“Captain Tucker, don’t die!” Palomo wailed as he rushed off the Pelican and towards his fallen commander.

“What the fuck?” Tucker groaned as the cry bounced off the rocks around them. Wincing, he started to push himself upright. His usually cool ochre skin looked clammy and his eyes dull.

“Ah ah ah,” Doctor Grey tutted, pushing his back to the ground. “I just spent the last hour gluing your stomach back together, Captain Tucker. I would hate it if you undid all my hard work.”

The other lieutenants hurried off the Pelican after Palomo. Jensen let out a squeal when she spotted Simmons and Smith nearly burst into tears as he ran to Caboose. Bitters, meanwhile, raced over to Grif with an urgent message.

“Hey, Bitters, nice to see you lived,” Grif greeted him. He and Simmons were standing near where Grey was treating Tucker and Washington, hoving as close as they dared without being in the way.

“Yeah, hi, there’s something I need to tell you,” Bitters responded quickly.

“It’s the most amazing thing ever!” Jensen interrupted, bouncing excitedly in place. “We didn’t really understand who he was or why he showed up and took command but Bitters finally told us everything on the ride over here!”

“Told you what?” Simmons asked, perplexed. “Who took Command? Command of what?”

In a moment of sudden prescience, Grif turned and looked at the Pelican parked at the far end of the clearing.

The rear hatch was open, ready for the injured and uninjured soldiers to board the transport. Suddenly, a figure strode down the ramp, pausing at the base to look around. Even at this distance, it was clear the New Republic soldier was unusually tall. A long sniper rifle rested on his back and he moved with a surety that was rare on Chorus, as though his heavy armor was like a second skin.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Grif breathed. His stomach flip flopped. “What the hell, Bitters? What’s _he_ doing here?”

“He? He who?” Simmons exclaimed. “What’s going on?”

“DEXTER GRIF, YOU LYING SACK OF SHIT!”

The soldier was staring right at them. At _Grif._ His booming shout brought the entire area to a halt while heads snapped back and forth between them.

“Shit, okay, Simmons?” Grif was babbling. He knew he was and couldn't stop. He started edging away from the others, away from the Pelican. “If I die, tell my sister I went out being a badass!”

“What?!”

The soldier erupted into action, sprinting at full speed directly towards them.

“Oh, fuck me! Tell her, Simmons!” Grif yelled. Turning, he bolted, sprinting towards the radio tower.

“DON’T YOU DARE RUN!” the soldier bellowed. “I have a few choice words to share with you!”

“You gotta catch me first!” Grif called out right before he disappeared from view around the side of the tower.

North round the corner after him at full speed, fueled by a mix of rage, joy, indignation, and hysteria. Before he could proceed further, a hand reached out and grabbed him, bring him to a halt so fast, he thought he almost got whiplash. Once his feet were steady beneath him once more, he turned and glared at Grif.

The orange armored soldier raised his hands defensively. “Hey, yelling’s more effective in private, right?” He paused, then sheepishly tugged off his helmet. “Look, I know you’re justifiably pissed off and and probably want to spend the next decade or so yelling at me but before we get to that, uh-- are you okay?” Worry filled Grif’s exhausted eyes. “You’ve spent the last several years keeping your head down and now you’re wearing the colors of one of the factions tearing this planet apart? I just need to be sure you’re okay before we start fighting.”

North stared at him in disbelief. He’d left North behind with just a note to explain why, had been attacked by cruel mercenaries whose goal was planetary genocide, disappeared leaving everyone to think he was dead--

He and the Reds and Blues had fought a terrible battle alone to free the planet of Chorus--

And his first question was to ask if _North_ was okay?

That insufferable, lying--

Compassionate, caring--

Flames filled North’s head, burning away coherent thought. With a strangled oath, he ripped of his own helmet and dropped it to the ground, knocked Grif’s out of his hands, and dragged him forward into a kiss.

Meanwhile, back in the main clearing, Simmons stared aghast at the dust and dirt stirred up by the mysterious soldier’s rampage. Beside him, Jensen let out a soft, happy coo.

“What the hell?” Carolina suddenly shrieked.

Stunned at the new exclamation, everyone turned to look at her. None of the soldiers who knew her had ever heard her voice hit that register before.

Frozen in shock, Carolina stood staring at the path Grif and the soldier had disappeared down.

“Boss?” Wash stared up at Carolina from where he sat on the ground.. “That- that sounded like--” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence, slowly blinking dazed eyes. His bruised and bloodied face was twisted into an expression of confusion. “It’s the concussion, right? It’s making me hear things, isn’t it?”

Church appeared over Carolina’s shoulder. “Uh, that was a voice match,” he informed her in an incredulous voice. “I ran it multiple times just to be sure. That- that was _him_.”

“No, don’t you _dare_ \-- get back here!” Grey yelled as Carolina broke into an uneven run. “It’s like you don’t even want it to heal!” the doctor bellowed at the woman’s back.

“Will someone tell us what the hell is going on?” Simmons demanded.

Before anyone could answer, Carolina’s voice came echoing down to the clearing:

_“North, is that actually-- WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS? What’s WRONG with you two?”_

Church’s hologram suddenly materialized over Caboose. “Oh God, I’m never going to un-see that!” he moaned. “I processed it, it’s never going away now. Why me? I don’t deserve this!”

_“No, you can not have ten minutes! Put your armor back on and get back on the Pelican! … because we’re still in the field! This isn’t some kind of hot date! … stop laughing, Grif, right now!”_

“Wait, are they dating? Grif and that mysterious soldier?” Donut let out an excited squeal. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! Where did they meet? When? Are they going steady? Are they exclusive?”

“He said to call him North,” Bitters said, swiveling his head to look at Simmons. “Sorry, I was hoping I’d be able to explain before he finished talking to the pilot and disembarked.”

“North,” Simmons repeated, mind spinning. That sounded like-- It made him think of-- “North _what_?”

“North Dakota.” The Reds and Blues turned to look at Wash. He stared wide eyed at the path others had disappeared down. “He’s a Freelancer.”

There was a collective groan.

“Another one?” Simmons exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “Do none of you people stay dead?”

“Apparently not.”

“And now he’s dating Grif!” Donut enthused. He gasped suddenly and spun around, grabbing Sarge’s arm. “That means he’s on Red Team, Sarge! We have our own Freelancer now!”

“I dunno,” Sarge replied. He shook off Donut and crossed his arms over his chest. “How good can he be if he thinks Grif is datable material?”

“He’s good, really good,” Wash answered slowly, concentrating on picking the right words. “He stayed on the leaderboard the whole time I was part of the program. He’s the best sniper I’ve ever seen, an excellent strategist, and once shot a man into two pieces during a mission. Carolina can tell you more about that when she’s… um…”

“No longer screaming at them to put their pants back on?” Tucker suggested in a weak voice. He let out a whimper and draped an arm over his eyes. “If it turns out Grif’s been getting some the entire time we’ve been with the New Republic Army, I just might have to kill myself.”

“Well, that’s _certainly_ something I can’t condone,” Grey interrupted. She gestured at two of the nearby Republic soldiers. “Unless you’re willing to leave your body to science. In which case, I would be happy to help! Bu, you’ll just have to put up with it for now. We need to get you in the Pelican so I can get you to a proper surgical theater, Captain Tucker.

“And you, Agent Washington,” she added as the soldiers began carefully transferring Tucker on a stretcher, “aren’t doing a thing until I’ve seen proper scans of your brain. I’ve already put it back together once and I can’t wait to see what you’ve managed to do to it this time!”

“I didn’t ask to get knocked out,” Wash muttered.

Sarge stepped forward and helped the Freelancer to his feet. “You never do, son,” the former ODST chuckled. “Now, let’s get on board and you can tell me all about Red Team’s newest recruit.”

As the Reds and Blue started climbing on board the Pelican, Grif and North appeared, strolling down the path (fully clothed) with Carolina following threateningly behind them.

 _“I’m beyond thrilled you’re alive, North,”_ she’d said as they began their trek to the Pelican. _“But I have just seen more of you than I ever wanted to see in ways I can never un-see. Please don’t do this again.”_

 _“Well, let’s make sure this situation never arises again and you have a deal,”_ he’d replied with a steady gaze.

Beneath her helmet, Carolina’s lips curled into a smile. _“I can definitely get on board with that.”_

As they walked to the Pelican, a familiar buzz flitted into her brain. _Welcome back, Epsilon_ , she greeted.

_For the love of God, please tell me I won’t ever have to see that again._

_It was certainly surprising and inappropriate given our current situation but still. Kind of sweet, don’t you think?_ she replied, deliberately baiting the cantankerous A.I.

 _Good lord._ She felt him sigh and his hum of energy shifted slightly, winding down somewhat as he settled more comfortably into her mind. _I’m just going to ignore that. Everyone’s on board now. Tucker is stable and isn’t actively bleeding out anymore. Wash definitely has a concussion and other injuries but he’s pretty alert all things considered. Sarge is keeping an eye on him. Everyone else has been flipping out a bit because of Grif and North Dakota but no weird reactions so far._

 _Good. What base are we headed to?_ she asked as they approached the Pelican.

_New Republic. Although, the Pelican itself belongs to the Feds. Not sure what that means._

_With luck, that they’re serious about the cease-fire,_ she answered.

When they climbed into the Pelican, Carolina took a look around, relieved to see all her men safe inside. “Pilot, that’s everyone,” she called out as she passed down the narrow walkway between the rows of colorful suits of armor lining the sides of the transport to an open seat. “Take us home.”


	10. Chapter 10

“The Pelican goes in for a landing, but the radio jammer’s shooting up all sorts of electricity and stuff. It was like _ka-pew, pew-pew pew-pew_!”

The crowd of New Republic soldiers surrounding Palomo let out a collective sound of amazement.

“We’re on the ground,” Palomo continued. “Captain Tucker’s bleeding out. The Reds and Blues are bashed up. Things,” he paused for dramatic effect, “don’t look good!”

Gasps echoed throughout the room.

“Medics are on the scene. The weapons and gear the Reds and Blues captured are being loaded-- and that’s when _North Dakota_ appeared.”

The air rang with squeals and other excited sounds.

“He’d joined the New Republic when heard his lover had been _murdered_ and he was out. For. Revenge.” Palomo added a soft _da-da-da_ to his dramatic pronouncement. “During the Battle of Armonia, he led his unit through fight after fight, never hesitating, never fearing that **Death** lurked around every corner. And then came the _cease fire_.”

The watching crowd let out a chorus of whoops and cheers.

“He leapt onto the transport heading for the Reds and Blues. And once it landed, he raced off to go find the man he loved.”

“Awwwwwww!” the crowd cooed.

“Once we had everyone on board the Pelican, we took off and that’s when he spoke to me: _Palomo, come closer. Come closer_ . It was my captain. I leaned in. _Don't speak Tucker, you need your strength_ . But he brushed my hand aside, looked at me straight in the eyes, and said to me, _Palomo, you did good kid. You did good_."

“Oh, that’s bullshit!”

The crowd turned at the interruption to find Tucker and several of the other Reds and Blues standing nearby.

The aquamarine soldier glared up at Palomo, arms folded across his chest.  “What I actually told you was to stop crying and to shut the fuck up,” he snapped.

“Okay, yeah, but the sentiment was still there.”

“I fucking hate you, Palomo.”

Shaking his head at the back and forth, Grif turned to North. “Well, you’re a celebrity now. How does it feel?”

“Not as good as you’d think. It’s getting kind of creepy,” North responded, warily eyeing the worshipful crowd of New Republic soldiers. His repainted armor, now all purple with green trim, made his striking presence stand out even more than before, something slowly becoming a bit of a liability in dodging some of his more … enthusiastic fans. The lieutenants and other soldiers they’d found while escaping Armonia had been sharing more and more exaggerated tales of the battle to whoever would listen. And much like Palomo’s story of rescuing the Reds and Blues, the painfully young soldiers of the New Republic just _ate it up_.

“You know, if we hadn't shown up with that ship you'd probably be dead like for real this time,” Bitters said in a reproving voice. There’d been a pool of blood under Tucker when they’d arrived and not a single one of the Reds or Blues had escaped the fight with the pirates without a significant amount of damage to their armor. They’d all come terrifyingly close to dying.

Grif snorted. “Hey, we're a bunch of mavericks okay? We weren't even planning on making out alive. That was just an added bonus for being so fucking awesome.”

“Again, not my favorite plan,” North interjected as he shot a warning look at Grif. The fight with Felix and Locus was still a sticking point between them. It wasn’t that North thought the decision had been the _wrong one_ under the circumstances but it was disturbing how quickly Grif and the others had accepted their almost certain doom.

Meanwhile, Jensen stared at them in astonishment. “You went on a suicide mission for us?” she asked.

“Well, uh, you know we figured we owed you one,” Simmons responded, hoping it would move the conversation away from … whatever was going on between Grif and Agent North Dakota. He still hadn’t been able to wrap his brain around that.

“Alright, don't get carried away,” Grif said, interrupting Jensen and Simmons as they squabbled back and forth about their actions _(and how much more confident Simmons was)_. “You guys just happened to be the first people we ever met who thought we were cool. We saved you strictly for selfish reasons. And with the hope there'd be more pampering upon our return.”

“Mm, yes, there were absolutely no other reasons.” North did find it amusing how hard the Reds and Blues were working to downplay their actions. They’d saved an entire _planet_ from self-destruction and that was something worthy of praise.

“I’m here whenever you need me, sir!” Matthews called out from nearby.

“He seriously survived the fight? I mean, really?” Grif glared at North. “You couldn’t find a hole to drop him in or a bullet to shove him in front of? You seriously had to make sure the universe spared him?”

“I like him,” North countered with an obvious smile in his voice. “He’s useful.”

The squabbling continued, bouncing from one sim-trooper to another, across to the New Republic soldiers and then back again, occasionally rebounding off the amused North Dakota. Looking over the bickering from above, Washington shook his head in fond exasperation. North had slotted into Red Team with little trouble and seemed to be taking their more peculiar habits and traits in stride. Having him back had also answered one of the many mysteries Project Freelancer had left in its wake, one more loose thread finally tied away. 

Now all they had to worry about was maintaining the cease-fire between the New Republic and the Federal Army and stopping whatever came next. His comm suddenly crackled to life:

_“Wash, Church broke the encryption on the manifests. We know who Command is.”_

“Sounds like good news, Carolina” Wash replied in relief. Babysitting Kimball and Doyle was getting tiring, even with Sarge and Donut’s help. “I’m guessing you two have something in mind?”

 _“You better believe we do.”_ Church was practically cackling. _“Get the guys together. We have a statement to prepare.”_

* * *

 

 “We are total badasses,” Church gleefully proclaimed. “I totally told that guy to suck our balls!”

“We know, Church, we were there,” Carolina replied in exasperation. “We were _literally_ all there when you said it.”

“Yeah, but, come on. _So badass_.”

“Moving right along,” Wash interrupted, “where again are we going again?” he asked, calling ahead to Grif and North.

“To get a drink!” Grif called back, neither pausing nor looking back.

“And why are we having to walk?” Simmons demanded.

Grif stopped dead and turned, sweeping an arm out to encompass their rocky surrounds. “What part of this walk looks like it could fit a Warthog, Simmons? Do you think I’m doing this hike because I want to admire the scenery? Do you seriously think I would have done this for months if I could fucking _drive_? Christ, you’re an idiot.”

“You’re telling me you willingly walked four kilometers a day just for a _drink_?” Simmons’s voice was incredulous.

“Well, not just a drink,” North corrected in a bland voice.

There was a visible twitch amongst the Reds and Blues at the faintly suggestive comment. The couple hadn’t tried to hide their relationship but they also weren’t rubbing it in anyone’s face. North had never been an exhibitionist and Grif was reflexively defensive when it came to personal matters.

All in all, the sim-troopers were gradually accepting North into their midst. The nurturing nature that had resulted in North receiving the A.I. Theta was proving to be a welcome addition to the current Red Team dynamic, as it allowed him to find common ground with Donut and to provide a soothing balm to Simmons’s easily battered self-confidence. North also hadn’t tried to assume command of the small unit and was so far rolling with whatever orders Sarge barked out.

On Blue Team, Tucker had been surprisingly sullen about the newcomer but Wash figured that was a reaction to both his still-healing gut wound and the realization that yes, Grif had been “getting some” in the weeks leading up to the Battle of Armonia. Caboose, meanwhile, was continuing to be his usual cheerfully dense self and had yet to fully integrate “Agent Northwest” into his worldview.

All that was left, Wash reflected, was for everyone to accept that North and Grif were in a _romantic_ relationship and move on, something easier said than done. The relationship was proving to be _the_ major stumbling block for the squad of misfits. They’d all vaguely assumed that Grif and Simmons had the best chance of ending up together out of all the possible combinations but North’s dramatic appearance was requiring everyone to make changes to their worldview.

Wash did think he was starting to see how the two men fit together. Grif had a number of insecurities that seemed to trigger North’s fussing instinct (he’d been nicknamed ‘Team Mom’ back in their Freelancer days for a reason) while Grif had just the right sense of humor to send North into fits of giggling the same way South scathing mockery used to. And with each of them at their lowest point (Grif having lost half his squad and North still mourning the loss of Theta and South), they’d found common ground in their suffering.

There were also small hints here and there of their affection for each other. North, a surprisingly picky eater when he had the luxury, got a full plate in the mess hall instead of just the things he liked so Grif could finish his leftovers. And whenever North faltered, either thrown off by a moment of breathless worship from the New Republic soldiers or taken aback at a stray comment, Grif would be right there to bump shoulders and help steady him. Then there were other, subtler things. The occasional shared look across the room, the minute twitch of body language indicating conversations happening over a private comm line. For God’s sakes, they already had private in-jokes. _(Just last night, Grif had waved a spoonful of peas in North’s face, teasing him ‘Look, it’s your favorite! Peaaaas!’)_

More than anything else, North had simply stuck to Grif’s side, making it clear without words that he was there to stay.

In fact, the only person who hadn’t spent any time with North was Washington and the distance was something he was working hard to maintain. As much as Wash rejoiced to have North _alive_ and _back_ , he couldn’t look at him without being keenly aware of the gap where South should have been. A gap that would never be filled, not with what he’d done to her.

Wash didn’t know what North remembered or knew about the Meta’s attack. And since Grif hadn’t been present when Wash had shot and killed South, it was a mystery what, if anything, he’d told North about his sister’s fate. Wash was tense, living on the edge, worried of how he would react when he learned that Wash hadn’t just killed her but also mutilated and destroyed her body, lashing out in a fit of anger and rage as he used her corpse as a stand-in for the lingering remnants of Project Freelancer.

Before Wash could continue his downward spiral into misery, though, the shambling group finally arrived at their destination.

“Ah, home away from home,” Grif sighed happily as they approached the rusted and crudely welded together ‘building’.

“How long has this place been here?” Tucker demanded. “And why the fuck did nobody tell me about it? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been in a bar? I could have been picking up chicks for weeks instead of doing nothing but training!”

“I found out because Matthews is a suck-up,” Grif replied.

“And generally speaking, the locals prefer to avoid officers. Command staff usually lead to complications,” North added before pushing open the door and vanishing eagerly inside.

As everyone filled in, Wash discovered that the establishment was bigger than it looked from the inside and currently about half-filled with armored civilians. Many of whom were staring in open mouthed shock at North as he strode to the back of the room, helmet in hand. The bright purple and green of his armor practically glowed under the bright lights hanging from the ceiling.

“Fuck yeah,” Tucker breathed. Unconcerned by the rapidly shifting mood in the room, he hurried over to the bar, a set of I-beams welded together and laying their side. “What you got, man?”

The barkeep gave Tucker a narrow-eyed look. “Beer,” he finally grunted. “You the lot who got the ceasefire in place?”

“You’re damned right, we are,” Sarge informed him as he clomped up to the bar behind him. “Another victory for the glorious Red Army! Now then.” Sarge yanked his helmet off and leaned in close, his more-salt-than-pepper brows drawing together. “What do you have that’s non-alcoholic? Big Blue back there needs to be kept off the hard stuff. His brain rattles around like a BB in a boxcar. Last thing we need is to fry his last remaining brain cells. It’d be like drowning a puppy in sweet, sweet molasses.”

As the other Reds and Blue found a table to squeeze around, Carolina paused next to Wash. “You need to talk to him,” she said, reaching out rest her hand on his shoulder.

“To who? Sarge?” Wash replied in confusion.

“No, idiot. North.” Shaking her head in exasperation, Carolina continued. “It’s been pretty clear you’ve been avoiding him. You, him, York-- the three of you were close back in the program. This distance is hurting both of you. We’re the only ones left, Wash, we need to stick together. There aren’t that many people who will understand what we’ve been through or remember the people we’ve lost.”

Wash looked past the crowd of civilians to the back of the bar. North and Grif had claimed the last booth and already had a glass of beer each with more on the table, looking happier and more relaxed than they had in days. “It’s not that simple, Carolina,” Wash finally replied in a soft voice.

“Nothing ever is,” she countered. “Go.” With one final squeeze of her hand, Carolina turned and made her way over to the bar, tucking her helmet under her arm as she glanced up to read the chalkboard sign hanging on the wall.

“Damn it.” With an unhappy sigh, Wash reluctantly started trudging away from the bar and towards North. It was time to face the music.


	11. Chapter 11

North paused mid-sip as he spotted Wash making his way towards them. His eyes darted to Grif, head tilting sideways as he raised his eyebrows. The orange soldier started, turning slightly before nodding. Question asked, answer given. With a smooth, practiced motion, Grif swung his legs out from under the table and rose to his feet, pausing long enough to grab his helmet and drink before walking away from the booth. A flicker of envy ran through Wash; that type of silent communication used be the norm during the days of Project Freelancer.

Discomfort churning in his gut, Wash took Grif’s seat and pulled off his helmet, setting it down on the table at his elbow. For a moment, he and North just looked at each other, taking in the many changes time had inflicted on them.

North’s once bright blond hair had turned dull and dry, looking more like brittle straw than anything else. Overgrown stubble muddled the outline of his face and chin but couldn’t completely hide the faint spots of discoloration dotting his skin. The whites of his eyes-- weren’t, any longer. The sclera had taken on a bloodshot, yellowish tone, a worrying sign of a serious drinking problem that set Wash even further on edge.

Meanwhile, North felt his stomach sink at how thoroughly battered Wash looked. His once boyish, cheerful face now looked half-starved with narrow cheekbones poking out beneath his heavily freckled skin, as though he’d been ground down to bare bones. Bruise-like shadows lurked under his eyes, while thin scars crisscrossed his face and vanished down the side of his neck. Wild sandy blond hair was already turning prematurely gray at his temples and over his ears. Over all these visual testaments to how brutally Project Freelancer had treated him was the patina of still-healing bruises Locus’s merciless attack had left behind.

With a soft sigh, North pushed one of the untouched drinks towards Wash and raised his own in mock salute. “We both look like hell,” he said in a rueful voice.

Wash let out a harsh bark of laughter and picked up the drink, tipping it slightly towards North. “To surviving by the skin of our teeth,” he agreed.

“I can drink to that.”

And with a light clink of their glasses, they did.

“So, is it because of what happened in Project Freelancer?” North asked once he’d set his drink down. Wash paused mid-sip, confusion creeping over his face. “It’s just--” North paused for a moment, uncertain how to continue. Juggling grenades was easier than this, sitting here and facing that tense, closed off face. “It’s been almost a week since the Battle of Armonia. I know you were in Medical for a while but, well, it seems like one of us is always coming or going. It didn’t take long to get the message that you didn’t want to talk. I figured it must have something to do with Freelancer.”

Wash sighed. Figured North would just jump straight to the heart of the matter. He fidgeted with his glass, focusing for a moment on how easily it slid on the table through the slowly forming puddles of condensation. “I guess you could say that,” he finally admitted. “Although it’s more to do with what happened after. Um--” He stopped. Closed his eyes for a moment and gingerly rubbed his brow with an armored hand. “After the crash, what did you and South do?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“You mean after the program imploded?” North confirmed in a soft tone, looking faintly puzzled. Wash gave him an unhappy nod. “We hiked to an abandoned simulation base, took shelter for a while so South could recover. She was pretty battered after the fight. Then, we hitchhiked to a new system and started doing merc work guarding transports, taking on bandits, that sort of thing. Not our favorite way of passing the time but it was a reliable way to make a buck.”

North took a moment to drink. These were painful memories, memories of being half-starved and unwashed for days and weeks at a time. Never certain when they would find another job, what they would be forced to do in order to survive on the fringes of society. They’d fought whoever they’d been hired to fight, fought in bars, and fought each other. By night there’d been screaming matches, wild accusations and recriminations being flung by both sides. And when the next morning dawned, they’d suited back up and faced the day as a team.

“We were surviving,” North finally continued, “but we couldn’t stop fighting. South was never completely comfortable leaving the program. And through everything, Theta was both our ace-in-the-hole and the reason for the worst fights. South wanted to send him back to Freelancer, I wanted to keep him, to protect him. Each year, it all just got _worse_ ,” he said in quiet misery. “Eventually, the fights bled into work and a job went wrong. Really wrong. We were supposed to be protecting an isolated colony from raiders but-- we didn’t. We failed, completely and utterly. South took off afterwards. I couldn’t bring myself to stop her.

“A week or so later, she came back. Said she’d taken time to think and work through some things.” North shook his head. “She seemed happier. More focused, driven. Like she’d found new purpose. The fights stopped and I thought everything was going to be okay.” North fell silent, then downed the remained of his drink. “Then Maine, the Meta, attacked. I don’t-- I don’t really remember how exactly that went down. Just Meta tearing my armor to pieces and ripping Theta out. After that...” Voice drifting off, North shrugged helplessly. “I woke up and Theta was gone. South was gone. My armor a smoking crater. I eventually found my way here and just started drinking. Didn’t stop or slow down until Grif showed up.”

Wash nodded slowly as North stopped talking, both in sympathy and acknowledgement. “I think, I can fill in some of those blank spots,” he said softly, dropping his gaze to stare into the amber liquid of his drink. “I got certified Article 12 once the dust settled from the crash. It took me a while to- to sort myself out after Epsilon. And even then, they only de-certified me because they needed someone to start running down Freelancer assets that had slipped away from the program. They called me _Recovery One_.”

He sat in silence for a moment, the bitter sound of his post-Freelancer codename hanging in the air between the them. Taking a deep breath, Wash pushed on. “All I wanted was to burn Project Freelancer and everyone associated with it to the ground. But they were watching, wary I’d snap or break the wrong way. I ran down equipment, intelligence, even former agents at Command’s beck and call while trying to come up with a plan.

“Eventually, I answered a recovery beacon and I found York.” Wash’s voice was flat and uninflected, his mouth tight and obvious pain in his eyes. “Wyoming got him. All these years and he finally couldn’t protect that damned left side. I recovered Delta, destroyed everything else-- and that’s when your beacon activated.

“When I got on the scene, South was unconscious and you armor had been stripped of both Theta and your gear. I’d seen that kind of damage before and knew you’d been attacked by the Meta. When South came to, I gave her a minute to mourn before I blew up your armor.”

Pausing, Wash’ looked up, eyes narrow. “Your armor was empty, North. And you were nowhere to be seen.”

North gave him a helpless look, spreading his hands palms up over the table. “I don’t know, Wash, I can’t explain it. I remember Maine tearing into my armor. I remember Theta. Then I woke up under a pile of rocks and my head had a burning hole in it where Theta should have been.”

“I guess that’s a mystery we’ll never solve,” Wash reluctantly concluded. He took a bracing sip from his beer and refixed his gaze on the table. “Well, after I blew up your armor, I got in touch with Command and told them you _and_ South were dead. You two had been running for so long, I-- I wanted her to have some peace once she’d helped me out with a little... project.

“South implanted Delta and we set a trap for the Meta. Only, it turns out, the Meta attacking you was itself a trap. South shot me and left me for dead.” Wash stopped. Squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “It turns out South had signed back on with Command and was also working as a Recovery Agent. First, she set you up and then me, all with an eye towards capturing or killing the Meta and to hell with the consequences. And now that she had Delta, her very own A.I., she left.

“I found her again a while later. I had Caboose and… and another Blue with me by that point. We drove the Meta away but not before it managed to injure her.” Wash’s tone went flat and his words started to emerge in short, clipped sentences. “Delta implanted himself into Caboose. Delta told me her plan to save her own skin. That she’d been about to give him up. Delta also informed me that she did the same with you. He suggested I make sure she didn’t hamper our progress hunting the Meta. So I shot her in the head. And destroyed her body.”

North’s face turned ashen. His mouth fell open, working wordlessly as horror crept into his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. “You-- my sister, you _killed_ \--”

The back of a chair slammed into their table. Grif stared down at the two Freelancers with a tight, unreadable expression on his face before dropping into the chair he’d rammed them with. “In case you forgot,” he began, “you’re in a bar. There is no such thing as private.” He turned briefly, gesturing with his empty glass at a nearby server. Then, setting the glass down, he folded his arms and gave them both a long look.

“I didn’t want to butt in but this conversation was clearly about to go off the rails.” Grif stared hard first at North, then Wash, not looking away until he had their full attention. “I think it might be useful to backtrack a little bit. Look at the big picture.”

“Big picture?” North demanded, still ashen faced and angry. “He killed my sister!”

“Yeah, because she shot him. And tried to get him killed. After trying to get you killed,” Grif countered. “And why did she do that?” He waited, looking back and forth. “Well?”

“She was looking out for herself,” Wash finally answered.

“Right. But also wrong. Big picture, Wash. Try again.”

“She didn’t trust that I, that we would help her,” North stated in a faintly questioning voice. He wasn’t sure what his lover was trying to get at.

Grif shook his head. “Strike two. _You’re thinking too small_.”

Perplexed, Wash and North exchanged confused looks, united momentarily in the face of Grif’s strange riddle.

With a roll of his eyes (and a quick thank you as a server finally brought him a fresh drink), Grif took pity on the Freelancers. “By the time the Meta came to exist,” he explained, “South wasn’t your sister anymore, North. Not after everything the Program did to her. By the time the program imploded, she just another test subject to be tormented and taken apart.”

“Grif, I don’t--” North shook his head, struggling to understand what he was talking about. Damn Grif and his multi-layered reasoning.

“Everything Project Freelancer did was an experiment, right?” Grif paused to drink, watching them over the rim of his glass. When no answer was forthcoming, he swallowed and continued. “The main experiment was the with the Alpha and the fragments. That’s old news. But they did smaller experiments at the same time. We heard about that shit all the way back in Blood Gulch, stuff like putting two A.I.s in Carolina just to see what would happen. North, do you really think dickweeds like that could resist doing a _twin_ study?”

Wash blinked. “That’s right,” he realized, several disjointed memories starting to whisper at him all at once. “I remember that now. They wanted to see what would happen if one of one twin got an A.I. and the other didn’t.”

“Exactly,” Grif nodded. “So they pushed and pushed and pushed at South until she was breaking, until she was coming apart at the seams. Watching her to see how she was different from her twin. The South you’ve told me about, North, from when you two were growing up? Doesn’t sound a goddamned _thing_ like the South I’ve heard Wash or Carolina mention.

“Project Freelancer took your sister and twisted and tormented her until she was so broken the only person she could trust anymore was herself. They tortured her until she reached the point where she couldn’t trust _anyone_ not to hurt her anymore. All she had left was the drive and values they forced on her.” Grif reached out and took one of North’s hands, squeezing it as tight as he could through their gauntlets. “Project Freelancer killed South. The gun may have been in Wash’s hands but they’re the ones that destroyed her.”

North closed his eyes and squeezed back. It made sense. It really did. Like so many of the puzzles and thought experiments Grif had laid out for him over the last several months, the fragmentary pieces suddenly snapped together to form a whole, complete picture. South had changed. The woman he’d lost to Meta’s attack hadn’t than the twin who’d left Project Freelancer with him. She’d been dramatically different from the rowdy but still loving Nika Petrov who’d convinced him to sign up for the mysterious Special Ops unit trying to recruit them. He’d always known, had always been aware but he hadn’t really thought through what those changes meant or how they’d occurred. And how could he when he’d grown so obsessed with protecting Theta over even the life of his own sister? He’d changed as well, hadn’t he?

Trust Grif to put together all the pieces, even ones no one else noticed.

Shaking his head, North opened his eyes and gave Grif a bitter smile. “Patterns and links,” he said in a shaky voice. “I told you that, weeks ago. You really do see shit other people don’t. I’m damned glad I don’t live in your head. It must be frustrating being surrounded by so many idiots.”

Grif’s cheeks darkened noticeably at the sudden praise.

North turned his head. “Wash?” he started in a soft voice. “I’m-- I’m going to need some time to process this. But Grif’s right. You may have pulled the trigger but it was the program that killed my sister. I just-- I didn’t see it before. Probably because they were breaking me right along with her. I wish you hadn’t done it but… you wouldn’t have had to if they hadn’t hurt her.”

“Project Freelancer broke all of us,” Wash agreed. “I don’t know if we’re better or worse of for having survived.”

“ _I’m_ glad you lived,” Grif muttered. The three men sat in silence for several long moments. Eventually, he couldn’t take it any longer. “Well, that was a shitty conversation,” he announced. “Let’s move on. What’s going to start a fight first: Donut with his horrendous double entendres or Tucker after he flirts with someone’s date?”

“Absolutely Tucker,” Wash replied, jumping relieved at the sudden change of topic. “It’s like he found a book of the worst pick-up lines of all time and memorized them. So it won’t just be because he flirts with the wrong person but because the lines he uses are so bad.”

North took a bracing drink, still rattled but understanding _why_ Grif was pushing them away from dwelling on South. “I dunno, have you heard Donut? It’s worrying to think what he’ll be like once he’s started drinking.”

The debate was slow at first but over time, the conversation began to flow easier. Grif didn’t say much, preferring to drink and hold North’s hand, jumping in whenever the discussion started to lag. They’d avoided one truly awful fight. He didn’t want another to break out because the two former Freelancers were feeling so emotionally raw.

A strange tickle suddenly filled the back of his brain. Eyes narrowing briefly, he slowly stood up, muttering about going to the bathroom before strolling away from the table.

 _Church? What the fuck are you doing?_ Grif demanded silently.  

 _Hey, this wasn’t my idea!_ the A.I. protested. His voice was slightly sulky; he wasn’t used to being spotted so quickly by the sim-troopers. _Your little ‘bang the chair on the table’ routine got some attention and Carolina wanted to make sure North and Wash weren’t going to start fighting._

 _So you waited until_ **_after_ ** _the argument was over to jump into my implants?_ Clear annoyance flowed through Grif as he roughly pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom.

_I told Carolina you could handle it. It’s not my fault she’s feeling over-protecti- Dude, seriously?_

_I need to piss, Church. If you didn’t want to see it you shouldn’t have jumped on board without asking._ When the itch that heralded Epsilon's presence didn’t vanish, Grif felt his temper flare. **_Church!_ ** he silently yelled, _Say what you want to say and get the fuck out!_

_All right, all right! Just give me a rundown on what happened between Wash and North so I can tell Carolina. Alcohol is making her feel all mother-hen-y and shit._

Rolling his eyes, Grif mentally bundled up the conversation he’d jumped into and shoved it at the A.I. There was a flicker of surprise before Epsilon dove into it. Then, a chuckle, amusement layered with compassion, sympathy, and understanding.

 _Grif? I’m glad we’re on the same side,_ Epsilon informed him. _North’s right, your brain is freaky good at processing intel. Almost as good as me, actually. Alright, that’s all I needed. Catch you later! You’re done pissing, by the way._

The tickle vanished. Grif stared at the wall in quiet resignation. He was surrounded by idiots and assholes. With a sigh, he started the process of tucking himself back into the armor. May as well go find his asshole. With the Reds and Blues in the bar, it was sure to be an entertaining night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response I've gotten to this story has been incredible. Thank you all for reading and sharing this Rare Pair with me. Your enthusiasm means I'll definitely be coming back to revisit this AU in the future. Make sure you check out the first one-shot in this universe listed in the Series tag under "Take A Shot".

It's well into morning when the Reds and Blues start staggering home from the bar, Freelancers in various states of intoxication accompanying them on their meandering journey. By some miracle, Caboose had been prevented from consuming any kind of alcoholic beverage and was now supporting both Carolina and Sarge, each of them tucked against his side under the pretext of helping  _ him _ back to base.

Tucker and Wash were leaning against each other, talking in a soft, easy banter broken up by an occasional fit of giggling. Donut, meanwhile, was guiding Simmons along the path, having spent the night proving himself to have a remarkably high tolerance for alcohol. The maroon soldier, by contrast, found himself challenged by the concept of  _ vertical _ and  _ forward momentum _ .

Bringing up the rear, Grif and North watched in amusement as the group straggled on, got distracted, lost members to various bushes and animal trails, then rediscovered them further down the path. North had an arm slung across Grif’s broad shoulders, fairly far gone with drink. Grif, meanwhile, had a very pleasant buzz going. Enough to feel warm and relaxed and floaty but not enough to be impaired on the two kilometer hike back. Goodness knows, he’d done it enough to know when to stop drinking.

When the watch post finally came into view, North stumbled to a stop, holding Grif back while the others continued on. Donut glanced back briefly and gave them a cheerful wave.

Turning to his lover, North reached out with surprisingly steady hands and tugged Grif’s helmet off, then his own, dropping the pieces of armor to the ground. Reaching up, he cradled the shorter man’s face for a moment then wrapped him up in a tight hug.

“Before we get back,” North started, talking directly into his ear, “and we’re surrounded by all the New Republic babies, I wanted to say thank you. You-- you put me back together, Grif. I was broken, all broken and stuck. But you came to the bar and you weren’t a jerk and--” he pulled back, letting his hands linger on Grif’s shoulders while he gave him a steady look. “You listened to me and you didn’t judge me or try to make me change. You saw all the pieces I was in and you didn’t get scared away. I still hear Theta screaming but it’s not all the time anymore. It’s not every time I close my eyes or if I stop thinking. It’s, it’s better. Better than it was. You did that. Thank you.”

Stomach twisting with embarrassment (but also happiness. In fact, primarily happiness), Grif smiled and shook his head. “You are totally wasted, man. Look at you, you can hardly string two sentences together.”

North gave him a huffy sniff. “Ask me about this in the morning. Or-- whenever I’m sober again. I’ll say the same thing. I realized when I thought you were dead--” his voice broke softly at that word, “I realized how much you’d put me back together. And I knew, without you, I wouldn’t-- I can’t keep getting better without you.”

Grif laughed softly. He’d heard North deliver drunken monologues before but this had to take the cake. “What, so I can’t get rid of you now, is that it?” he teased.

“Nuh-uh,” North replied. He smiled, happy to hear Grif laugh. “I love you. And you love me. You said so in your letter. So we’re going to be together forever.”

Stooping down, North kissed him, long and deep. They both tasted like beer but that was unimportant next to the simple embrace.

When North finally pulled away, he looped his arms around Grif’s neck. “I’m glad I have Carolina and Wash again. The others-- I like the others. But you’re the important one, Grif. I’m here for you. Whatever you decide, I’m with you. If you want to leave, I’ll go with you. If you fight, I’ll be by your side. Wherever you are, for whatever reason, I’ll be with you.”

The declaration was simple and to the point. On some level, Grif imagined that a sober North Dakota wouldn’t be so willing to gush over him. But he had. And the words-- they were wonderful and exciting and  _ terrifying _ . All his life, Grif had fought to protect his sister, to protect the Reds and later the Blues. He’d always fought for others but he’d never felt like he could be sure someone would do the same for him. At most, he was only ever going to be second-best.

North, though-- North was happily casting his lot all-in with Grif, proclaiming once and for all that to him, Grif was the most important person in the universe.

The little voice in his mind whimpered:  _ I’m not worth it _ .

With a deep breath, Grif forced the voice away. It wasn’t always right. And if he’d listened to it when he first went to the bar, he’d never have gone back to sit with North, to get to know him and fall in love with him.

With a shaky breath (and a quick scrub at watering eyes), Grif pulled North in for another kiss. “You better believe I’m asking you about this tomorrow,” he said once they parted. “If for no other reason than to see you embarrassed for once.”

North let out a happy hum. “I’ll tell you the same thing tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. However many times you want to hear it,” he promised. He kissed him again. And this time, North’s hands started to wander, reaching down to pull Grif’s hips close to his.

Laughing again, Grif untangled himself and took hold of North’s arm, tugging him back down the path towards the watch station. “Come on, we should go before you start stripping again and it’s some of the New Republic kids we traumatize instead of Carolina.”

It took another half hour to make it to through the checkpoint and to the New Republic base. Just as Grif was getting ready to steer North towards the private quarters they’d been granted  _ (it had only taken one lowly private walking in on them mid-coitus for Kimball to decide they  _ **_really_ ** _ shouldn’t be in the regular barracks) _ when an anguished cry pierced the air and a blur of yellow slammed into him, sending North tumbling to the ground.

“I thought you were de-ea-aa-ad,” the blur wailed into his neck. “All I had left of you was a stupid letter!”

“K-- Kai?” Grif grappled with the blur, yanking and prying at the arms locked like steel around his chest. “What the hell are you  _ doing  _ here?” he demanded when he finally pried his sister off him.

Kaikaina glared, the heat in her eyes easily burning through the visor of her helmet. “I got your stupid letter and a message from some dude called East or some shit like that saying you were dead! And that’s bullshit so I stole another ship to come and find you!”

“Well, I’m not dead so go back to your ship and get out of here!” Grif yelled. “This planet is a wreck! It’s not safe for you to be here!”

“Like hell!” Kaikaina yelled back. “I let you go off on that stupid reassignment and it almost got you killed! Over and over again!”

Just as the siblings started gearing up for a proper trashy Grif family fight, North reached up and tugged at Grif’s elbow. “Is this your sister?” he asked, sounding utterly unfazed by the sudden interpersonal drama. “I like her, she has good priorities.”

“Who the fuck is that?” Kai demanded, glancing down at the fallen Freelancer. “He sounds kinda h--” she paused, then suddenly straightened. “You know what, I don’t care if he’s hot. I’m not going anywhere because you keep almost  _ dying _ whenever I’m not around. I’m staying! Deal with it!”

“I  _ really _ like her.”

“You stay out of this!” Letting out a soft, wordless scream, Grif sucked in a deep breath. Then he glared at the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Spotting familiar maroon stripes, Grif jabbed a finger at Jensen. “You! This is my sister.” Grabbing Kai’s arm, he dragged her over to the female soldier. “Find her a place to sleep, I’m not dealing with this right now. And if anyone tries to sleep with her,” he added in a louder voice, turning his head to glare at the crowd, “you’re going to WISH you were still at war with the Feds when I’m done with you! Is that clear?”

Something in his tone must have been convincing. There was an immediate chorus of terrified “Yes, sir!”

Growling, Grif shoved Kai at Jensen. “Bed, now!” he barked, automatically putting on his Big Brother voice, the one that snapped and roared like gunfire. “All of you!”

The crowd scattered. In moments, the area was clear once more. Jensen hastily dragged his sister into the female barracks and slammed the door closed behind her. Turning, Grif froze when he found Kimball helping North to his feet.

The General stood still for a moment, studying him from behind the blue sheen of her helmet visor. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she said, sounded amused. “Good night, Captain Grif.”

“General,” Grif said through gritted teeth. His happy buzz was gone, wiped out by the thermonuclear explosion that was his sister.

North walked up and wrapped his arm around Grif’s shoulders. “Worry about it in the morning,” he urged. “For now, let’s go to bed.”

A little while later, Grif and North were wrapped up together in bed. Tomorrow would be busy. The army was scheduled to start the move to the Capital and now they had to cram Kaikaina Grif into their plans. But for now, North kept Grif distracted with large, clever hands and teasing kisses. With soft words of love and devotion. And Grif couldn’t help but respond, eagerly wrapping North up in his powerful form and the wit and cleverness that made him laugh and eased his battered soul. Tomorrow, they would be back at war and swept up in family drama. But tonight was for them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending got especially important to me after being thoroughly traumatized watching Season 15, Episode 6. Seeing Grif walk away from everyone and hearing how exhausted he is really hit me hard. He’s so tired, so worn out, and feels so used. He’s never had someone 100% in his corner and-- gah. You don’t really need to stray into headcanon territory to realize that’s been the pattern of his entire life and that it's really dragged him down. Well, for once, I’m going to make sure Grif has someone and someone has Grif. He’s at his best when he’s protecting someone and he damn well deserves to have someone who cares about him just as much.
> 
> Thank you all again for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> That's right Grif and Agent North Dakota. Two character who never met and will never meet in canon because one of them is dead! *cue hysterical laughter mixed with tears*


End file.
